


The Heirs of Winterfell

by alice_day



Series: In the Shadow of the Throne [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon though..., Neither is Arya, Reaction to s08e04, Sansa isn't stupid, Tell her you love her already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18729385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_day/pseuds/alice_day
Summary: After the Battle of Winterfell, Sansa receives some very unexpected news about her future from Bran.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa Stark tried to breathe through her mouth as she watched the survivors from the Battle of Winterfell pile the dead, both their own and the decayed wights the Night King had brought with him, on the common funerary pyres arranged in rows in front of the keep. A pall of grey-black smoke rose from the numerous piles of burning bodies, staining the cold afternoon sky and hiding the winter sun. The stink of burning meat and bone merged with the stench of rotting corpses that still hung over the landscape, making her regret the small cup of soup she’d had for lunch. _I will not vomit. If the men out there can stand it, so can I._

“At least the fields will be fertile come spring.”

She turned to look at Arya. The smallest (and without a doubt deadliest) Stark was studying the carnage around their home as if watching farmers tending their crops. “How can you say that?” she asked, aware of the bitterness in her tone but unable to stop it. “Those are our people out there.”

Arya shrugged. “Trying to see the positive, I suppose. They died, but their ashes will nourish the fields that feed their families. In a way, they’ll live on.” Her expression was coldly composed. “There are worse ways to look at it.”

Sansa couldn’t think of one, but she’d never understood how Arya’s mind worked in the first place. “I suppose so.”

A soft grunt of pain came from behind them. Sansa glanced back at Brienne of Tarth, the newest Knight of the Seven Realms. She had tried to order Brienne to rest, but the tall woman had stubbornly shaken her head. “My place is at your side, my lady,” she’d insisted. “My wounds are minor.”

Which was an out-and-out lie. None of the surviving soldiers had come through the battle unscathed. Even Samwell Tarly, Jon’s bookish, portly friend, had taken gashes and horrible bites on his arms and stomach from the undead attackers. But Sansa well understood that pride was sometimes the last thing a woman had left, so she stayed atop the surviving battlements where Brienne could surreptitiously lean against a wall, and Ayra stayed at her side. Together, the three of them watched the uncounted dead burn.

Earlier, certain deaths had been honored with individual pyres. Theon had received his own pallet, as did Beric Dondarrion and Jon’s friend Edd. They would have given the Red Woman a pyre, as well, but her body had collapsed into a fine dust when the men went out to collect it.

Lyanna and Jorah Mormont’s pyres had been next to each other, the noble cousins connected in death as they’d been parted in life. Sansa had watched as the dragon queen stood before the flames that consumed Ser Mormont’s body. Even from a distance, Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes had glittered with tears. Sansa didn’t like the woman, but she could appreciate the depth of grief suffered by the little Valyrian.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the crunch of footsteps in the snow and a soft cough from Brienne. A dark shape in furs joined them at the battlement wall. “I’ve been told the men should have all the bodies burned by the end of the week,” Jon said.

“Good. The last thing we need right now is pestilence.” At least nobody would go hungry, she didn’t say aloud. After the horrendous losses they took against the Night King’s army, the keep’s remaining food stores would be more than enough for the survivors. “When do you and Daenerys start for King’s Landing?”

Even under his heavy furs she could see Jon stiffen. “I never said we were going to King’s Landing.”

Sansa wondered if he thought she was truly that stupid. “She lent you her armies to defeat the Night King. Now she’ll expect you to help her defeat Cersei and take back the Iron Throne.”

He didn't answer her at first, gazing out over the land surrounding the keep and the piles of dead inside their flickering carapaces of flame. “We lost so many,” he finally said. “Almost all of the Dothraki, and a goodly number of the Unsullied. If Cersei has the Ironborn fleet and the Golden Company as well as her own men, it’ll be a rout. We should stay here, rebuild our numbers.”

 _At last, some sense._ “Yes, you should,” Sansa said, unable to keep a hint of acid from her tone. “But your dragon queen won’t listen to reason. She wants her throne, and she’ll expect you to help her get it, no matter the cost.”

Jon managed to look angry and guilty at the same time. “You’re not being fair to her.”

“Really? Then why don’t you go and suggest staying here until your forces have recovered?”

She knew he wouldn’t. He was too much in thrall to the little blonde queen and her unyielding desire to take the Iron Throne. And so Daenerys would march her forces south, exhausted and reduced as they were, and throw them against King’s Landing. And just as the Battle of the Five Kings had ravaged Westeros, so would the Battle of the Four Queens—Cersei, Daenerys, Yara, and herself. Because the North would be drawn into it, she knew that for certain.

Jon’s words broke into her thoughts. “Why do you dislike her so much?”

 _Because all she wants is the Iron Throne. Because she’ll use the North to the last man to take it, and you’ll stand by and let her._ “It’s not that I dislike her,” she said aloud. “I don’t trust her. There’s a difference.” None of those madfolk from House Targaryen were fit to rule, as far as she was concerned. “Have you contacted Yara?”

He nodded. “A raven this morning. I’ve asked her to gather her ships and sail for King’s Landing. But Euron still holds the majority of the Ironborn fleet.”

Sansa imagined the black-sailed ships with their golden emblem guarding the maritime entrance to the capital. “As you said, a rout. And you won’t have me to bring in an army to help you this time.”

He flushed. “What do you want me to do, Sansa? Daenerys gave up her best chance at the throne to come help us. Without the Dothraki and Unsullied, we’d all be dead.”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

They both turned to Arya. “No, of course not,” Jon muttered in apology. “It was your blow that killed the Night King, I know that. But Daenerys’s men held off the wights long enough for you to reach him. Now, we have to help her retake the Iron Throne. It’s only fair.”

Sansa knew she wouldn’t be able to talk him out of it. His sense of honor was too ingrained, too much like their father’s. And she was afraid it would get Jon killed as well, if Daenerys Targaryen decided that his love was a hindrance in her goal to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. “Who are you taking with you?”

He shifted. “In addition to the remnants of the Dothraki and Unsullied, any wildlings that will come, and as many men as you can spare.”

“We need enough to finish burning the bodies and repair the keep. And Brienne stays with me.”

He glanced at the tall woman. “It would be easier if you all came with us.”

He clearly had no idea of what she’d gone through as a hostage of the Lannisters. Not for all the gold in Casterley Rock would she go anywhere near King’s Landing again. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell. This is my home and my responsibility. I’m staying here.”

Jon nodded wearily. “What about you, Arya?”

Her sister glanced at her, then at Brienne. “That’s up to Sansa.”

His shoulders sagged under the thick fur collar. “All right. I need to go talk to the quartermasters, see how they’re progressing.” With a brusque nod, he left.

Sansa considered her sister. “Do you want to go to King’s Landing?”

Something inside Arya’s expression hardened. “I’d like to. I have unfinished business there. But I won’t leave you unprotected.”

The stink on the cold wind grew for a moment and Sansa winced. “The greatest threat here was the Night King, and he’s gone. I’ll have our soldiers and the local workers, as well as Brienne. I should be safe. If you want to go south, go south.”

“Good—”

“On one condition.” If she couldn’t rely on Jon’s common sense, she’d have to rely on Arya’s. “I want you to keep an eye on Jon. He may be blinded by his love for the dragon queen, but I’m not. I don’t trust her.”

Arya smiled. It wasn’t a humorous expression. “I don’t trust anyone.”

****

The stink and the rising smoke, plus Brienne’s increased coughing, finally convinced Sansa to come down from the battlements. Arya slouched off into the shadows while Sansa stopped in the Great Hall to check on the arrangements for the celebratory feast that night. Even tired and grieving, the keep’s servants were all skilled in their jobs; after a few minutes of her wandering around they respectfully shooed her out, saying, “You’ve done so much already, my lady. You should rest.”

 _Rest._ Gods, she wanted to rest, but her body kept driving her to move, to check on the corridors and rooms of Winterfell and make sure that not a single wight remained hidden somewhere. But she was also conscious of Brienne’s increasingly limping tread behind her. She decided to retreat to the godswood, where the knight could take a seat near the entrance while she walked through the sacred grove. While Sansa didn’t pray anymore, she hoped she might yet find something there that would help her understand what her world had become.

After settling Brienne in a battered chair that had a good view of the godswood, Sansa walked into the winter-bare grove, letting the familiarity of the trees work a balm over her soul. When she spotted a familiar figure under the giant weirwood tree, she had to smile. “Hello, Bran. Am I disturbing you?”

Her younger brother raised his distracted gaze at her approach. “No. I was expecting you.”

Of course he was. Bran was the Three-Eyed Raven, after all, gifted with the ability to peer back and forth through time. “I mean it. If you need to be alone—”

“I don’t.”

“All right, then.” She leaned against his wheeled chair, studying the trampled snow around the weirwood tree. Here and there she could see crimson stains half-melted into the icy crystals. Heart’s blood, given by Theon and the Ironborn guards who had protected Bran while he sat there staked out like prey for the Night King.

Who lay even now beneath their feet, rendered into shards of ice by Arya’s blade. Sansa shuddered at the thought. “Wouldn’t you be warmer inside?”

Bran didn’t move. “The cold doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel very much these days.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. “Are you … seeing things?”

“Yes. The future, the past. The pattern of it all.”

What she was searching for—a pattern to make sense of things. “What have you seen for me?” she asked, half joking.

“Your children, playing in the courtyard here at Winterfell.”

“My … children?” The idea shocked her, and then made her wonder at her own shock. She had been focused for so long on survival, reuniting her family and holding the North together against the undead threat, that she’d forgotten about the other, more homely aspects of being a woman. She could live quite happily without marrying again, but she knew someone would have to provide heirs for House Stark, as Bran wouldn’t be able to and Arya didn’t seem the motherly type. “What were they like?”

Bran thought for a second. “Very tall, with dark eyes. They looked to be fine warriors.”

So much for the Tully coloring. “Tall, dark-eyed warriors. I suppose that crosses Lord Tyrion off my list.” Sansa said it with a flicker of regret. Her childish aversion to Tyrion’s stature had vanished long ago, replaced by a deep respect and affection for the brilliant little man who had survived so much to become Hand of the Queen. If it hadn’t been for his existing allegiance to Daenerys and the undeniable fact that the North would go up in flames if she married a Lannister, she might even suggest that they resume their marriage. “What else did you see about my children?”

Bran’s mouth didn’t move, but somehow he gave the impression that he was smiling. “They were all Starks.”

That made no sense. “That’s impossible. If I marry again, I’ll have to take my husband’s name.”

“No. Your husband and consort will take your name. Your children, the heirs of Winterfell, will be Starks.”

His statement echoed her own secret wish so strongly that she wondered for a moment if she’d misheard him. It was only right that the future Lords (or Ladies) of Winterfell would be Starks, but she couldn’t see any of the surviving noblemen of Westeros willingly giving up their family names, even for her hand. “I don’t suppose you can tell me where to find this paragon among men?” she said, trying for a dry tone.

“He’s here at Winterfell.”

That surprised her even more. “Ah. How convenient. Perhaps I should have runners sent out to look for a tall, dark-eyed nobleman who would be willing to marry me and take my—”

She broke off, staring at Bran. Because he was right. There _was_ someone matching that description at Winterfell who she suspected would be more than willing to take the name of Stark if it came with her hand in marriage. A thrill of fear and something else, something she refused to acknowledge, ran through her at the idea. On the surface, it seemed impossible—he was scarred, rough, uncouth, with a foul mouth and an even fouler temper—

The words left her mouth before she could stop them: “You’re telling me I’m going to marry Sandor Clegane.”

Bran stared back, composed.

“Sandor Clegane,” she repeated, louder now. “The Hound. The man who led Lannister forces to slaughter our bannermen in King’s Landing, who kidnapped Arya, who regularly terrified me—”

“Who protected you, even when it would have been easier to turn his back on you.” Her younger brother’s expression didn’t change. “Who gave you his handkerchief to blot your blood, and his cloak to cover your body. He dreams of you, as you dream of him. He will be the father of your children.”

She flinched from Bran’s words, the humiliating secret in them. She had never told anyone, not Shae, not even Arya, about her dreams of the Hound. They had been too raw, too primal, completely inappropriate for a noblewoman.

But part of her had treasured them nonetheless. “I can’t marry him,” she said, half to herself. “He’s a brute.”

Her brother blinked once, slowly. “He’s not what you were raised to want in a husband. But now you know monsters can hide behind a pretty face as easily as an ugly one. And while Sandor Clegane is a killer, he isn’t a monster. He may frighten you, but he draws you at the same time. He’s a match to the darkness inside you.”

Bran’s words brought back Ramsay’s last taunts about being inside her, becoming part of her. _It’s not true. I have no darkness inside me. I’m a good woman. I protect my family and my people. I deserve a good man, a kind man._

 _Yes, but do you_ want _a good man?_ Was that Littlefinger’s voice, or her own? Would a good man want _her_? She’d set those starving dogs on Ramsay and walked away smiling as his agonized screams rang in her ears. She’d sat there as Arya slit Littlefinger’s throat, watching coolly as his blood pooled on the flagstones of the great hall. She had stood in the crypt the night before, listening to her own men plead to be let in, to be saved from the horrors that waited outside, and ignored them. She had learned how to be ruthless, how to achieve her ends. She had learned how to survive.

Perhaps she needed someone who also knew how to survive.

Sandor Clegane. The ever-growing political side of her mind circled the idea of marriage to him, poking experimentally. _He tried to protect me from Joffrey. He would have taken me from Kings Landing the night of the Blackwater, if I’d had the wits to go. He rode north with Jon and the others to bring back a wight. He helped save Arya, and by doing that she was able to save us all. And he would never hurt me._ A renowned warrior who fought in the Battle of Winterfell, he would be held in high regard by her allies and feared by her enemies. He had no interest in ruling and wouldn’t try to usurp her power as Lady of Winterfell. And their children would undoubtedly become skilled fighters, particularly if their aunt Arya took them in hand and passed along some of her more esoteric training. If he was truly willing to take the name of Stark…

 _Of course, your name isn't the only thing he’ll take._ But that no longer frightened her. She wondered if Bran knew of the dream she’d had that morning after finally collapsing into bed, too exhausted to wash or even change out of her gown. In it, she had been back in her rooms at King’s Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater, the light from one flickering lantern and the greenish glow of wildfire the only illumination against that scream-filled night. And just like that night, the Hound had emerged from the room’s shadows, his scarred face smeared with mud, sweat, and blood as he loomed over her. Heart fluttering in her chest, she had assumed that he was using the keep's confusion to indulge himself in the restless craving she'd always sensed from him, to claim her maidenhead before Joffrey could. Instead, he’d shocked her witless by offering to get her away from the Lannisters and King’s Landing, and take her home to Winterfell.

Gods, she’d been frightened by him, so very frightened. It was why she had said no, believing desperately that Stannis Baratheon would win the battle and free her from the Lannisters. And so the Hound left her bedroom, and left her to her fate. But something deep inside her, some wild part of her she never wanted to acknowledge, had wanted to go with him that night. So in her dream she’d said yes, dropped the doll that was the last remnant of her childhood, and taken his hand. In the dream he’d gotten her out of the Red Keep, his heavy, vambraced arm holding her snug against him as he guided Stranger through the heaving, frightened crowds trying to flee the capital. They’d made it further into the Crownlands, finally stopping by a copse of trees to camp for the night. And then—

Hands. Mouth. A warm, heavy body on hers, making her feel protected. Words whispered in her ear, damp and tickling. She’d woken up breathless, an unfamiliar need throbbing between legs that in her dream had been locked around Sandor Clegane’s naked hips as he drove into her, making her his own—

“He won’t hurt you.”

Bran’s words startled her. _Damn you, stop peering into my thoughts._ “How can you know that?” she added out loud.

Her brother’s face remained preternaturally serene. “You and Arya are the only people he cares about.”

“You’re telling me he cares about Arya?” Her breath puffed into vapor. “He _kidnapped_ her, Bran. He dragged her across half of Westeros trying to sell her back to our family. And then he turned her into a killer.”

“Yes. He was the teacher she needed, in order to become the woman she was meant to be. If he hadn’t taken her, we would all be dead now.” Bran’s lips pursed faintly. “Or worse.”

Sansa tried to find a retort to that, and couldn’t. If Arya hadn’t spent time with the Hound learning how to be a killer, then honed that skill to a fine edge in Essos, the Night King would have won his battle against mankind. And if that had happened, they would all be marching south right now, blue-eyed and locked in eternal servitude.

She turned, focusing on the godswood around them. “I’ll accept that he cares about Arya. But he doesn’t care about me. Not like that—”

“‘You’ll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you’re queen and I’m all that stands between you and your beloved king.’” Bran’s light, toneless voice leached Clegane’s deadly promise from the words. But she still heard it as if the Hound was looming over her again in his Kingsguard armor, reminding her of what she could look forward to in her marriage to Joffrey.

And how he would be there for her, nonetheless.

Sandor Clegane had terrified her, yes. But he had also tried to help her in his own crude way, had offered to rescue her from the Lannisters and take her home. It was her childish beliefs that had put her in Littlefinger’s grasp, and later Ramsay Bolton’s. She understood that now, just as she understood that her fear of the Hound had been rooted in the desperate, angry desire she’d seen in his eyes.

 _But that desire doesn’t frighten you any longer. You’ve known actual monsters, been pinned down by them while they whipped you, bruised you, pushed into you and made you bleed. At least Clegane doesn’t want to hurt you. He simply wants you._ _And the gods know you’ve dreamed about him often enough._

“What do you suggest I do?” she said, willing herself to calm.

Bran’s chin came up a fraction. “I think you know.”

She did. The Hound— _Sandor_ , she would have to get used to thinking of him as Sandor—would never dream of asking for her hand. She would have to broach the topic. “When?”

“Soon, before he leaves for the south.”

 _Damn._ She hadn’t expected him to join Jon and Daenerys on their foolish quest. It would have to be today, then. She knew of a septon helping the wounded and the refugees. He could perform the ceremony here in the godswood, with a group of witnesses to solemnize the event. And it wasn’t as if she needed to ask permission from her father, or any man for that matter. She was Lady of Winterfell, after all.

Now all she had to do was get her prospective groom to marry her. _So why do I have the distinct feeling he’s going to be difficult about it?_

Bran smiled. “Because he’s a walking, talking reservoir of foul-tempered contrariness. But I have faith in your persuasive skills.”

She had to laugh at that. “I’m glad someone does.” Giving her brother an ironic curtsey, she left the godswood, mind on the daunting task ahead of her _._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa asks a question. Sandor replies. Arya is appalled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has left kudos, comments, and fixed my Westerosi goofs. You people are freaking awesome. It is now my great pleasure to introduce you to the Dr. Ruth Westheimer of the Seven Kingdoms -- Podrick Payne, Possessor of BDE and Sex Counselor Extraordinare. You're welcome.

“You sent for me, my lady?”

Sansa stood, smoothing her skirts as Clegane clomped into her study. She felt like a field mouse in front of a hungry direwolf, but she summoned her blandest expression, the one learned in the Lannister court and perfected by life with Ramsay Bolton. “Thank you for coming. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

He shook his scarred head. “Not particularly. There’s only so much wine I can drink, and there aren’t any wh—” He scowled, cutting himself off. “Never mind. What did you want, my lady?”

 _And it begins._ “I have a proposal to make to you. I’d like you to return to Winterfell once your business in King’s Landing is concluded.”

“How did—” Those dark eyes narrowed. “Bran. That spying little shit.”

“You’re talking about my brother,” she said with some asperity. “And the person who acted as bait for the Night King.”

He grunted at that. “He’s still a nosy little shit. And why should I come back here once I’m done at the Red Keep? You don’t need another guard. Between _Ser_ Brienne,” he gave the title a sarcastic weight, “and that sister of yours, you’re well protected.”

“You’re right. I don’t need another guard.” _Just say the words._ “But I do need a husband.”

It was difficult to read Clegane’s expression beneath the scarring and thick beard, but for a moment she saw a flash of longing before it was buried by his customary dourness. “And what do you want me to do about that? Am I supposed to track down the poor bastard and drag him back to Winterfell for you? Or is it the Imp you want? At least he’ll be easy to carry—”

“I was talking about you.” _You great clot._ She swallowed, hoping her face was still calm. “I’m asking you to marry me. On the condition that you take the name of Stark. I want the heirs of Winterfell to be Starks.”

She’d finally shocked him into silence. And then his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the knotted muscles through his beard. “I know you’ve changed over the years, little bird, but I didn’t think you’d become cruel,” he growled. “I don’t deserve this mockery—”

“I’m not mocking you,” she said sharply. _No—be gentle. You don’t tame something by shouting at it._ “I’m asking for your hand in marriage. I want you to be my husband and consort.”

“You do mock me,” he shot back. “You want me to be your husband? Me, of all the men in Westeros?” He stalked towards her. It was a struggle to hold her ground and not flee to safety, to stare up at him as he loomed over her. “You’re telling me you want to look at this for the rest of your life?” He jutted his chin so that his burn scar was clearly illuminated. “Do you want to see it hanging over you in our bed? Because if I marry you, I intend to fuck you as well, count on it.”

“I would hope so,” she said, striving to keep her voice even. “Since it’s the only way I know of to produce children.”

His jaw dropped open at that, and she felt a flicker of satisfaction. _Yes, I know you want me. And you can have me, too. But you have to agree to my terms first._

It took him a moment before he regained control and closed his mouth with a click. “You’d bed me. Of your own choice.”

The suspicion and disbelief in his tone made her heart ache a little. “Yes.” Even though the thought of it frightened the life out of her. “And have your children, and live as your wife. Sandor and Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” She tried to smile. “It has a nice alliteration, I thought.”

“Hah.” He paced away from her, resting his balled hands on the window ledge as he stared out into the waning afternoon. “Why me?”

This had been so much easier in her head. “Politically, it makes sense. As Lady of Winterfell I will need to wed again and produce heirs. I would prefer a husband who can command the respect of our allies and the fear of our enemies. And I need one who won’t try to rule the North through me.” She studied his broad back, wondering what he was thinking. “You never struck me as the type who wanted to rule.”

“Gods, no,” he muttered.

“Well, then. You’re a nobleman, even though you have no love for the nobility. And…” Her voice faltered as memories overwhelmed her. Pain, and her desperate, begging screams as Ramsay subjected her to yet another intimate torture. She pushed them away, clearing her throat. “You once told me that you wouldn’t hurt me. Do you still mean that?”

Clegane glanced over his shoulder, scowl softening just a bit. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

She nodded, wishing that she could stop the tremble in her stomach. “Then you have all the qualities I need in a husband. The biggest sticking point is taking the name of Stark. I know that it’s a great deal to ask, but—”

“I have no great fondness for House Clegane.” He turned, resting against the sill. “My father chose his favorite son long ago. It’s not my fault that Gregor’s turned into … well, whatever he is now.”

She’d heard only the barest of details from Jon about the grey-skinned hulk with burning eyes that had stood behind Cersei at their meeting. “Do you agree, then? Will you marry me and take my family’s name?”

He remained silent for a moment, studying her. “When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

The one eyelid that could still move freely flickered in surprise. “That quickly? I would’ve thought you’d want to wait until we came back from lopping Cersei’s head off and planting the dragon queen’s ass on the Iron Throne.”

She ignored the mocking crudity in his words. “If you married me tomorrow, you would head south afterwards as my husband. I could send some of my guard with you as your men.”

He snorted. “I don’t need a guard. Let them stay here and protect you.”

Brusque as it was, she could see his point. “Then you would go south with my name, and my regard. That might be of some help to you in certain circles.”

“Your name and regard. How generous of you.” He crossed the room, stopping less than an arm’s reach from her, so close she could feel the warmth coming from his body. It was a surprising comfort in the cool room. She wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms, surrounded by so much heat. “And your love? What about that, little bird? Or is that only given to pretty boys like Joffrey?”

She looked at him directly. For the first time she noticed that Sandor Clegane’s eyes were a rich shade of brown, thatched with dark lashes, and his mouth and nose were well-formed over a strong chin. If it hadn’t been for the burn scar and his perpetual scowl, he would have been a comely man. _I wonder what he looks like with his hair washed? Or better yet, trimmed, along with his beard?_ “That will come with time,” she said evenly. “My mother and father’s marriage was a political one, but they grew to love each other. I believe we will, as well.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” He tried to sneer, but it lacked conviction. “You think you can come to love a dog like me?”

Sansa realized that he had unwittingly given her a glimpse into his carefully warded and hidden heart. Underneath the sweaty, scarred, foul-tempered surface was a man who had been convinced by the actions of his own family that he was unworthy of love. And yet he still maintained some core of humanity, a tarnished, violent, but functional code of honor that had allowed him to come to her aid time and time again, with no promise or hope of reward.

In his own broken way, the Hound was more a true knight than all of the Kingsguard combined. “I can come to love a man like you, yes,” she said, and meant it. “So, shall we be married tomorrow?”

After a long, painful moment, he shook his head. Her heart fell. “But—”

“We’ll be married tonight. I know your people are preparing a feast—it can do double duty as a wedding feast.” He paused, then gave her a faint smile, the first she’d ever seen on his face. “You’re so eager for me, after all. No point in waiting.”

She had to stop herself from sagging in relief, ignoring the fear behind it. “All right. Tonight, then.”

“Mm. I’ll be in the Great Hall. Have someone come get me when everything’s ready.” He gave her a brief nod, then turned to go.

“Wait.”

He paused. “What?”

 _I have to know what it’s like, before the ceremony. I don’t want to flinch and humiliate him._ “Seeing as we’re to be married and all, I thought you might like to ... kiss me.”

“Oh.” His gaze fell on her mouth. “I don’t—I mean, the wh—”

He fell silent, grimacing, but she guessed what he meant. “Have you ever kissed a woman?”

To her astonishment, a hint of pink spread across his cheekbones. “M’mother,” he mumbled. “Not like it’s that important, is it? Not compared to other things.”

“It is important.” Steeling herself, she reached up and cupped his face. His beard was crisp against her palms, and the scarred skin on the right side felt cool and stiff. He smelled surprisingly good, with hints of leather, steel, and clean sweat over a dark note she knew was male. “I would like you to kiss me, Sandor. Please.”

He hesitated, but let her tug his head down to where she could press her mouth against his. His lips were too firm at first, but she persisted until they softened, parting slightly over her own. It was ... pleasant, she decided. He didn’t know what to do, but then again, neither did she. The few times Joffrey had kissed her had been like kissing a dead fish, wet and sloppy. Ramsay's kisses had been brutal, bruising her mouth as he almost choked her with his tongue.

But Sandor was different, clearly expecting her to take the lead. She followed her instincts, sinking deeper into the kiss. When she heard him make a sound, of surprise or pleasure she couldn't be sure, she let the tip of her tongue flick along the seam of his lips. They opened and she slid her tongue into his wine-tart mouth. He seemed startled at first by her boldness, hesitantly brushing his tongue against hers. Cautious as it was, it caused an unexpected heat to pool between her hips. She slid her arms around his thick neck, clinging to him as they explored each other and this new pleasure they shared.

When he groaned and wrapped his arms around her, she knew she’d done the right thing. Eventually their mouths drew apart and she sucked in a breath. “I liked that," she whispered.

His own breath was short as well, and he gazed at her with a boggled amazement. “So did I.”

A scolding servant’s voice in the hall outside brought both of them back to reality. With reluctance he tugged her arms from around his neck, but held onto her hands. “If I stay here much longer, I’ll take you on the rug,” he murmured, “and to all seven bloody buggering hells with a wedding ceremony.”

The ridge she had felt growing against her belly during their kiss gave truth to his words. “You’d better go, then. Or I’ll let you.”

“Sansa—” Her name was another groan, and for one mad moment she was tempted to pull him onto the rug and see what other noises she could get him to make.

 _No._ There was far too much to do, a septon to speak with, guests to corral. Oh, Gods, she would have to tell Arya. Did she even have clean bedding for her wedding night? She squeezed his hands, wondering how they would feel on her bare skin. “Tonight, Sandor. We can wait that long.”

“Maybe you can, little bird.” He glanced down at his breeches. “I’m going to be in fucking agony for the rest of the afternoon.”

Since her time with the Lannisters Sansa had always considered her femininity to be a burden. Now she saw the power in it. “I’ll make it worth the wait,” she promised.

Another of those faint, hesitant smiles, unexpected as a bloom in winter. “Tonight, then.”

Letting go of her hands, he turned and left. She curled her fingers around the memory of his touch, using it to force away the fear of what would happen later. _Not all men are Joffrey or Ramsay. And Sandor promised he wouldn’t hurt me._ In theory, she knew that what happened between a man and a woman in bed could be pleasurable—Shae had assured her of it. But whether such pleasure could be achieved with a man like Sandor Clegane remained to be seen. _If he’s gentle and quick, I'll be happy with that._

With a nod, she turned her mind to the task of arranging a wedding in less than a day.

****

“You _what_?” Arya hissed.

“I’m marrying Sandor tonight, and I need your help,” Sansa repeated. “I’ve already pressed all of my ladies into service, so I need you to make the rounds and tell everyone the feast will be delayed.”

“They’ll be furious.”

“Not if I invite them to the wedding.”

Arya started to reply, then shook her head, grimacing. “Can I at least ask why?”

 _You owe her that much._ Sansa laid out her line of reasoning, pointing out the political benefits and the need to add more Starks to the pack. “And I want him,” she admitted, cheeks heating. “I think I always have.”

Arya made a face. “Better you than me. Then again, he's an improvement on your last husband.”

She wholeheartedly agreed with that. “So will you help me?”

“If I have to. What time is the ceremony?”

Her first stop after Sandor left her study had been to Septon Hoyt, a tall, genial man with a halo of white curls and slightly protuberant blue eyes. The septon had been unexpectedly understanding of her request, seeing as he’d been tending the wounded and mourning folk of Winterfell since the battle. “Give me enough time for a wash and to find a clean robe, my lady, and we’ll get you and this Clegane fellow wedded properly,” he'd promised.

“Moonrise,” Sansa said now, “and it will take place in the godswood.” The small sept that their father had constructed for their mother at Winterfell had been destroyed by Viserion’s thrashing. And to be honest, she preferred the idea of getting married in the godswood. Not only would there be enough room for everyone, but it was a way to symbolically erase her marriage to Ramsay Bolton.

“The godswood at moonrise. I’ll spread the word.” Arya paused, studying her face. “Just so you know, I’ll support you if Jon or anyone else objects. I’m not saying I like Clegane, but you’ll be safe with him. He’ll disembowel anyone who looks cross-eyed at you.”

Sansa remembered how Sandor had fought for her during the Bread Riot in King’s Landing, spilling the insides of her would-be rapists on the stone floor before carrying her to safety. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

The news quickly ran through the keep, and people began stopping Sansa to offer congratulations on her upcoming nuptials. Some of them were more enthusiastic than others—her ribs still ached from the massive hug Tormund had given her before Brienne ordered him to let her go. “You will take the sadness from his eyes,” he boomed. “Keep him warm and give him many children, eh? And perhaps other people will get ideas.” He leered over her shoulder at Brienne. Sansa couldn’t see her guard, but she could image the disgusted eyeroll.

The one sour note was Jon, who had steered her into a quiet corner. “Clegane? Sansa, are you mad?” he’d growled. “The man is absolutely vicious. How can you want that in a husband, especially after...”

He’d grimaced, obviously not wanting to mention Ramsay Bolton to her. Trying to control her irritation, she repeated the political reasoning and need for Stark heirs she’d laid out for Arya, leaving off the part about wanting Sandor. Jon had seemed as unconvinced as their sister had been, but finally accepted her decision. “If you’re sure—”

“I am,” she had said, resting a hand on his arm. “He isn’t going to hurt me, and he’ll be good for our house.”

An odd look flickered across her brother’s face, but he’d drawn her into a hug. “Just be happy, Sansa. You deserve it.”

She hugged him back. “Thank you. And while we’re on the subject, I have a favor to ask you…”

Later that evening a light snow started after moonrise, just as it had the first time Sansa came to the godswood to be wed. But this time the path to the weirwood tree wasn’t lined with iron lanterns on poles. It was lined with the people of Winterfell, each one holding a candle and watching in quiet, happy benediction.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa started down the path, arm in arm with Jon. She smiled at the well-wishers lined up to see her—Brienne and Jamie Lannister, Podrick, a grinning Tormund. Davos, Tyrion and Varys standing together, a faint look of regret on the small man’s bearded face. Arya next to Bran’s chair, one hand on his shoulder while the other held a candle. Behind them were northerners, wildlings, Dothraki, and Unsullied packed in all the way to the trees, here to celebrate the ultimate victory of life over death.

In the place of honor next to the septon stood Daenerys Targaryen, white-blonde hair freshly braided into a regal coronet. She wore her newly cleaned white fur coat and watched Sansa and Jon’s approach with a polite expression. Behind her, Missandei and the Unsullied commander Grey Worm stood in place of the late Ser Jorah, silent guards against any potential enemies.

But there were no enemies there tonight. Only friends and comrades waiting to see the Lady of Winterfell wed.

Septon Hoyt had even been kind enough to use the marriage ceremony of the old gods instead of the one dictated by the Seven. “The old gods or the new, it doesn’t really matter in the end,” he’d confided to Sansa. “What matters is that you hold to your wedding vows and respect each other. Can you promise me you’ll do that?”

She’d promised, and had been rewarded with a pat on the arm. Now Hoyt stood at the end of the path in a white robe and gold surplice. And next to him—

She hid her shock. Sandor’s long, shaggy hair had been washed, neatly cut, and brushed back from his face, and his beard had been trimmed into an elegant style. His scars were on display for all to see, but that didn’t seem to bother him. Instead, his gaze was locked on her, admiration, anticipation, and desire combined there in a heady mix.

She smiled at him. _Soon, I promise. And then I’m yours, the way you wanted._

Hoyt smoothed his robes. “Who comes before the old gods this night?” he called formally.

At her side, Jon cleared his throat and said, “Sansa, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Sandor stepped forward, flakes of snow glittering in his newly shorn hair. “Sandor of House Stark. Formerly of House Clegane and of the Kingsguard.”

A surprised rustle went through the crowd and she saw the dragon queen's head snap around at his announcement, but Sandor's attention stayed focused on her. “Who gives her?” he added.

“Jon of House Stark.” Sansa heard a strange hesitation before the house name and her heart went out to him. _You’re as much a Stark as Arya, Bran, or I am, brother._ “Warden of the North and former Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Hoyt beamed at them all, waving Sansa forward until she was facing Sandor. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?”

The last time she stood here she hesitated, afraid of what lay ahead of her. This time there was no hesitation at all. “I will take this man.”

Hoyt nodded, continuing with the ritual. “Then by the authority of the old gods and the new, I name you man and wife,” he concluded, gesturing to them both in benediction. Sandor took the cue and leaned down, kissing her gently.

Before he could straighten up again she whispered, “I like your hair.”

He snorted. “It was the Imp’s idea. He said I shouldn’t look like a wildling at my own wedding.”

“He was right. You look very handsome.”

His unscarred eyebrow rose at that, but he seemed pleased nonetheless as he took her arm and presented them to the cheering crowd.

****

The wedding feast wasn’t as lavish as some of those Sandor had seen in King’s Landing, usually from his guard post behind the royal throne, but it was spiced with good comradeship and a rowdy affection that put it head and shoulders over those icy southern events.

The only thing he didn’t like was having to sit at the head table with Sansa. Not that he objected to sitting _with_ her, but he would have preferred to do it in a quiet corner of the hall. As the Consort of Winterfell, he supposed he would have to get used to being on public display. _At least the damned title should cut down on smart remarks. And if some mouthy little shit pisses me off, I can have someone else beat him bloody._

He smirked. _Of course, where’s the fun in that?_

On Sansa’s other side, Daenerys and Jon sat together, giving each other the occasional strained glance. Sandor would have bet his helm that they were fucking before the Night King arrived, but now it seemed like a crack had formed between ice and fire.

Not that he cared. He had his own problems to deal with. Tossing back the wine in his cup, he debated pouring himself another, then decided against it. It wouldn’t do to go to his marriage bed sloppy drunk, especially as he was becoming increasingly worried about what would happen once he got there.

Sansa seemed to sense his discomfort and leaned over, her lips touching the ragged remains of his right ear. “All we have to do is get through this course, and we can leave,” she whispered.

Which meant he didn’t have much time. “All right.” He studied the great hall full of people busy eating and drinking. As fate would have it, his eye fell on the one person who might be able to offer some advice. _Gods, this will be fucking humiliating. But it’s for Sansa._ “I’ll be right back.”

Sansa gave him a smile, then turned to Jon. He stood and wound through the crowd, reaching his goal. “Lannister,” he growled.

“Clegane. Sorry, Stark.” Tyrion Lannister saluted him with a goblet before taking a noisy slurp from it. “I’m glad you took my advice on the hair. It’s quite fetching on you.” He wiped his mouth, the twinkle in his eye abruptly going out. “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, please know that if you hurt Sansa I’ll find someone even bigger than you and have him slice off your bollocks. Slowly.”

Sandor glared at him. “You’ll have to line up behind Arya, Brienne, and Jon Snow, then.” Each of them had already cornered him before the wedding and offered to rain down seven hells on his head if he harmed a hair on Sansa’s. The only threat he took seriously was Arya’s. “Why does everyone think I’m going to hurt her?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Because you’re _you_.”

“And when have you ever known me to harm a woman?” He grimaced. “Well, apart from that blonde bitch that Tormund keeps trying to fuck.”

The little man leaned back on his seat, raising one wobbly finger. “For your own continued well-being, I would suggest not calling Ser Brienne that, especially in Tormund’s hearing. Or my brother’s.”

“Fuck your brother, and fuck that ginger cocksucker as well. I only fought _Ser_ Brienne because she tried to take Arya.” He rubbed his thigh, feeling the faint ache that was his parting gift from that brief, vicious fight. “I don’t hurt women if they don’t try to run me through or knock me off cliffs.”

The Imp blinked for a moment, then his head tilted in acknowledgement. “You don’t, do you? Come to think of it, I've never even heard a whore complain about you.”

And why should they? He paid them well, didn’t waste their time with unnecessary talk, made sure they were oiled and ready, and took them from behind so that they didn’t have to look at him. He even suspected he pleased them a few times. His cock was certainly big enough, and he’d heard that women liked that—

An image flashed through his mind, of Sansa in her shift at King’s Landing the morning she’d started to bleed. Tall but slim, with narrow hips. She’d filled out some since then but she was still slender. And he towered over her. “Anyway, I need to talk to you,” he said brusquely.

Tyrion waved at the empty seat next to him.

“Not here.” He jerked his head towards one of the unoccupied corridors. As he hoped, the Imp got up and followed him, goblet still in hand.

In the corridor the noise from the hall died down slightly. “All right, you have my full attention,” Tyrion said. “What do you want?”

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to speak. “I know you’ve fucked your way through every whorehouse from here to Oldport. I need to ask some things. About … women.” He desperately wanted to grab the little man’s goblet and drain it. “I'm bedding Sansa tonight, and everyone keeps telling me they’re going to turn my guts into a banner if I hurt her, and—fuck it. I’m worried I’m going to do just that, without meaning to.” His fists clenched. “She’s tiny, compared to me. I don’t even know if she can take me without splitting in two.”

Tyrion’s face contorted. After a moment Sandor realized the little man was trying not to laugh. “While I’m sure that your cock is a mighty weapon, Stark, I doubt it’s the size of a baby’s head, and women’s bodies deal with those regularly. Still, I can see where your … stature might be a problem.”

His fists clenched again, hard enough to crack the knuckles. “Don’t you dare fucking laugh at me,” he growled. “This is serious.”

“Oh, no, I agree. It would be inconvenient in so many ways if you accidentally killed the Lady of Winterfell in your wedding bed.”

For one mad moment, Sandor wondered if he could make Tyrion Lannister's head pop right off his stunted body if he squeezed hard enough. “Imp—”

Tyrion held up a hand. “Peace, Stark. I’ve just thought of the perfect wedding gift. Although now that I come to think of it, this may be more of a gift for Sansa than you. Wait here.” He waddled back into the crowded hall, leaving Sandor to pace.

When Tyrion returned, it was with the squire who followed Brienne around like a suckling pup. “Stark, allow me to introduce you to the only man from whom the whores of King’s Landing refused to take payment,” he said with an ostentatious gesture. “Podrick, I charge you to tell the Consort of Winterfell everything you know about pleasing a woman.”

Podrick gave them both a nervous look, but nodded. “I’ll try, my lord.”

Sandor bristled. “I know what to do with a woman.”

“Yes, if she’s a whore who doesn’t care what you do with her as long as she gets paid,” Tyrion said patiently. “A wife is an entirely different matter. You wanted my advice, I’m giving you my advice—talk to Podrick. Trust me, even I learned a few useful tips from him.” The little man saluted them with his goblet. “Now, while you two are chatting, I’m going to find some more wine. This arid northern air has a horrible tendency to dry out my cup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Sandor has grey eyes in the books. But the lovely and talented Rory McCann has eyes of a rich chocolate brown that you could happily gaze into for hours, preferably in some remote Icelandic lodge after a long day of sailing while you're both warming yourself in front of a roaring fire, mmm--
> 
> \--where was I? Oh, yeah, I'm going with actor coloring instead of book canon coloring. So now you know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night of Sansa and Sandor. After a tense little interaction with Daenerys, things get explicit. There will be body hair, some thoughts on nubs, and the term “going south” will take on a whole new meaning. If that’s not your thing, turn back now.

Sansa waited for Sandor’s return, but an hour passed without him coming back to the high table. _“I’ll be right back.” That_ is _what he said, wasn’t it?_

She glanced around the Great Hall. Jaime Lannister and Brienne had their heads together in discussion down at the far end, while Varys and Ser Davos were off by the wine jugs holding their own conversation. Gendry was being congratulated by a throng of well-wishers on his promotion to Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, although she couldn't see Arya in that group.

She also couldn’t see Sandor anywhere in the happy crowd—or Tyrion, for that matter. _Oh, Gods, please don’t let Tyrion be threatening some sort of ridiculous retribution._ It had been bad enough that Jon, Arya, and Brienne did it, although she appreciated the intention.

A rising discomfort from her midsection didn't help things. Between dinner, the glass of wine she’d had with it, the increasing warmth of the Great Hall, and her nerves, she was feeling slightly queasy. She waved for a serving maid to come over and said, “Please tell my husband Lord Stark that I’m going to my rooms, and that he’s welcome to join me once he returns.”

“Yes, my lady,” the girl said, curtseying.

Sansa hoped that Sandor didn’t think she was abandoning him, but she needed a few quiet minutes to herself before—well, before the rest of the night began. _I liked his kisses. And I liked being in his arms._ That was something. _Perhaps he’ll be quick about it, and if he’s anything like Ramsay he’ll fall asleep immediately afterward._

She immediately felt guilty at the thought. Sandor was nothing like Ramsay, and she thanked all the old and new gods for that.

Her exit was blocked as Daenerys rose from the table at the same time she did. Jon was off at the far end being toasted by Tormund and the other wildlings, and the little blonde queen had a strange look on her face.

“Are you going to your rooms now?” Daenerys asked, politely enough.

 _No, I'm going to do somersaults around the courtyard._ She plastered on a smile. “Yes, your grace.”

“Then I wish you and Lord Stark a pleasant evening. I wasn’t aware that he was a Clegane. I wonder, did you know his brother killed my infant niece and nephew during Robert’s Rebellion, as well as my sister-in-law?” Those lovely eyes went cold. “Well, I say killed. Slaughtered would be more precise.”

The last thing Sansa wanted to do now was verbally spar with the dragon queen. “I’m aware of that, your grace,” she replied as evenly as she could. “I’m also aware that your father killed my grandfather and uncle. He hung them in cages and burned them alive, if I remember correctly. But if we continue to carry blood grudges from generation to generation, we’ll eventually wipe out every man, woman, and child in Westeros. We may as well not have bothered to fight the Night King in the first place.”

Daenerys’s chin came forward. “Just know that when I retake my throne, I will be meting out punishment to the Mountain. Make sure that your husband doesn’t get in the way.”

She turned and glided off, back ramrod straight. Sansa suppressed an eye roll, but it took some effort. _Not if Sandor gets there first._

She hurried out of the hall to avoid any more last-minute good wishes, going straight to her rooms. Her maid had been delighted at the idea of turning it into a wedding bower and quickly drafted a brace of serving lads, sending them out to gather fragrant evergreen boughs to decorate the bedposts and fireplace. The woody fragrance hung in the air now, and it soothed her churning stomach.

 _What should I do now?_ She supposed she could change into her nightgown, but that seemed too … soon. _Then again, he’s going to see you naked at some point. He’ll see everything Ramsay did to you, the marks he left beneath your clothes so that his father wouldn’t know._

A sudden, savage memory of Ramsay ripping open the back of her gown and pushing her down on the bed surged through her mind. She winced, flinching from it, and her stomach sloshed sickly. Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, she forced her gorge back down. _Sandor won’t be like that. He promised he wouldn’t hurt me._

She knew that intellectually. Her body, however, was more difficult to convince, and she stiffened when the door behind her opened. “Sansa?”

She surreptitiously wiped her mouth before turning to a wary Sandor. He filled the doorway, as if hesitant to enter. She tried to give him a welcoming smile. “I’m sorry I left without you. It was getting rather warm down in the hall, so I thought I’d wait for you up here. Please, come in.”

His wariness lessened but didn’t disappear as he walked in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I'm sorry about that. I got to talking with—someone, and the time slipped away from me.” He glanced around the chamber that had been her refuge until tonight. “Nice room.”

“Thank you.” Her control was returning. “It’s yours as well, now. I've made room for your things in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers.”

“Oh.” He tugged at the black doublet with the direwolf sigil that had been hurriedly let out in the shoulders and chest to fit him. It had been Ned Stark’s; she supposed there was some irony in the fact that it was now being used as a wedding garment for the man who had taken him captive in King’s Landing. But it was also the biggest doublet in the keep, and it was either that or Sandor’s battered armor. Sansa thought her father would have appreciated her practicality, if nothing else. “I don’t have much with me.”

“I can have some new clothes made for you. In the meantime I’ll have the servants bring your things up here tomorrow.” _There, all the niceties observed._ She stepped to the table where her maid had left wine and poured them both goblets, handing him one before taking a quick sip from her own. “Well, here we are.”

****

“Mm.” Sandor took a large mouthful from his goblet, appreciating the sour red. This had seemed so much easier a few hours ago. He’d marry Sansa, have a good dinner, then come up here, tumble her into bed, and slake the craving that he’d endured since her days as Joffrey’s betrothed.

The squire’s explanation had changed all that.

Men were simple. Some friction around their cock—a tight cunt, a hand, a mouth, it didn’t matter—a good squirt, and they were happy. Women, on the other hand, were fucking complicated. You had to touch and kiss them in a number of places to get them excited. And apparently they had a _nub_ , of all things. Not that easy to find, according to Payne, but if you did and played with it properly you could get the woman to scream, and not from fright.

He had to admit, he did like the idea of Sansa screaming his name. Clinging to him, face red and sweaty as she reached her own pleasure, knowing he was the one who brought her there. If he could do that, it was worth the effort of finding this nub. And Payne had even suggested an odd but fairly easy way to do it. _Although with your luck, if you get her screaming that wolf bitch sister of hers will come running and gut you like a trout._

He took another swig of wine, glancing around her chamber. It was a nice room, not overly frilly as he’d expected, but tidy and smelling of fresh evergreen. He’d always liked that fragrance. _Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop dithering like an old woman._

He drained his goblet. “I think I’m more frightened than you are,” he said once he’d swallowed.

Sansa’s brows came down at that. “Why are _you_ frightened?”

Which confirmed that she still feared him. Gods, he hated discussions like this. “Because I don’t want you despising me after tonight. I told you I won’t hurt you, and I’ll stand by that. But I’m not a gentle man. I’m not the kind to write you pretty poems about your hair and skin, or kiss your hand and be satisfied with that. I want you, Sansa. I’ve wanted you since King’s Landing, and not as a lady to send me off to battle with your scarf tucked inside my armor. I want you naked and on your back beneath me, your legs wrapped around me as I sink into that pretty pink quim of yours. And tonight I’ll finally have that. I’ll have you. But I’m afraid—” He chewed his lower lip, only stopping when he tasted blood. “I’m afraid you’ll hate me for it.”

He half-expected her to draw herself up into The Lady of Winterfell and inform him coldly that he was a dog, a brute beast who didn’t deserve her hand or her body. Instead, she gave him a sad smile. “I’m not expecting you to treat me like stained glass, Sandor. You’re a warrior, not a courtier. I know that. If your … enthusiasm … gets the better of you, I won’t hate you for it. I just—I don’t want there to be pain, that’s all.”

Not for the first time, he thought of Ramsay Bolton, what he had heard about the sadistic cunt. His hand tightened around the goblet, wishing it was Bolton’s throat. “There won’t be pain,” he said roughly. “I won’t take you unprepared.”

She nodded, but the fear he could see lurking behind her eyes pricked at him. “I already know what’s supposed to happen between a husband and wife. You don’t have to prepare me.”

“I meant—” Some of the mind-melting things the Imp’s squire had explained danced through his thoughts. _If he lied to me, I’ll feed him his own guts._ “Never mind. I’ll show you when the time comes.”

Not knowing what else to do, he went to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge. _Comfortable. If nothing else, we'll sleep well tonight._ When he patted the spot next to him, she took it, hesitant but not poised for flight. “Sansa, I—”

“I have scars.”

He snorted. “Not like mine, little bird.”

Even in the light from the candles and the fire her face was pale. “No, but—if you’ve built some perfect image of me in your head, you won’t be getting that. I thought it only fair to warn you.”

Only then did his damnably slow brain catch up with what she was saying, what she was trying to tell him. He clenched his teeth. “Bolton.”

“Yes. He did … things to me. I can’t talk about some of those,” she said quickly. “I hope you can understand. But if I flinch, or pull away, it’s not because of you. You have to believe that. I just … I just don’t want it to hurt.”

For a moment, Sandor wished Thoros of Myr was still with them. If it were possible to resurrect Bolton from whatever piles of dog shit the cunt now rested in, he would have the priest do it just so that he could have the pleasure of killing the mewling bastard himself, slowly and with great attention to detail. “I don’t mind scars.” It came out gruff, too gruff, but he meant it. “Show me.”

She hesitated, then nodded. Handing him her goblet, she turned away from him, undoing the complicated clasps on her bodice from the movements of her arms. When it loosened she pushed it down along with her shift, exposing her shoulders and upper back. The creamy flesh was dotted here and there with little beauty marks, like nutmeg on warm milk. It was also crisscrossed with slender, livid weals, the mark of a thin whip or crop. “There are more, lower down.”

Rage at the Bolton cunt mixed with a hot need to touch her. If he were a decent man he would pull up her shift, tell her to get some rest, that they would have time for this once he got back from King’s Landing. But he wasn’t a decent man, and he couldn’t resist her any more. Hesitantly, he touched one thin scar, then leaned down and kissed it to show her it didn’t disgust him. When she didn’t pull away he trailed his lips along the length of the white line. “You’re beautiful,” he muttered against her skin.

Her laugh was harsh. “When I’m dressed, yes.”

“No, like this.” He didn't care if she was tabby-striped with scars, she would always be beautiful to him. He kissed another line, feeling the raised texture, the warmth of her skin against his lips. “You’re perfect, Sansa.”

She took in a deep, shaky breath. He continued, slowly kissing each and every scar he could see. When he was finished, her shoulders had relaxed.

Podrick’s words came to mind. _Pay attention to her body, how it reacts._ Following the squire's advice, he kissed his way up her skin to the crook where shoulder met neck, until he was nuzzling the spot under her ear. This time her sigh was deeper and she leaned back against him.

 _What else had that damned pup said? Oh, yes._ Feeling somewhat silly, he took her earlobe between his lips and sucked it gently. Her gasp of pleasure surprised him.

He let the bit of flesh slide out of his mouth. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No.” It was half-word, half-whisper. “It feels nice.”

 _Nice._ He damn well intended to do better than “nice.” His cock was stiffening but he forced himself to ignore it. Time enough for that later, when his lady—his _wife_ —was slick and ready for him.

He gathered her hair and moved it so that he could continue kissing around the nape of her neck, then in a line down the knobs of her spine. This time she moaned, so softly he almost didn’t hear it. “Sandor?”

“Slowly, little bird. We have all night.” He laid one last kiss on her shoulder then let her hair fall. She’d shown him her secrets, brave lady that she was. Now it was time for him to do the same. “I’m going to get ready for bed. Put on whatever you like.”

He stood and went to the end of the large bedstead. There was a wardrobe across the room, but this wasn’t just about getting undressed. He pulled off his doublet, then took off his boots and thick socks. Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, he untied his neck strings and yanked his shirt over his head.

When he looked at Sansa again, she was still sitting on the bed, watching him. Her eyes had gone wide. “You’re … furry.”

“I know.” He ran a hand down the thick tangle of hair on his chest and belly. “Keeps me warm in winter. It’s a hot bitch in summer, though.” He undid his belt. “Good thing I married someone who lives up north.”

****

Sansa had meant to get up, go to the wardrobe and change into her nightgown. Silly or not, it would make her feel better when she first got into bed with Sandor. _He doesn’t mind my scars. He kissed them. I can’t believe he did that—_

And then he pulled off his shirt and she couldn’t move, mesmerized by what he revealed with every piece of clothing. She knew his hands were massive and his chest was thickly haired from the few times she’d seen it peeping out of the collar of his doublet or armor, but she’d had no idea what the rest of his body looked like.

Now she knew. Under the fur he looked like one of the statues from Dorne, with wide shoulders and a broad, muscular chest leading down to a flat, ridged belly. His arms were heavily muscled as well from years of swinging a sword, and he bore multiple scars like badges of honor. Staring at her, he unbuckled his belt and let his trousers fall to the floor, stepping out of them.

Her mouth went dry. His legs were just as strong as the rest of him, with a large white scar etched into his right thigh. Above it he wore a pair of bleached linen braies, but the abbreviated smallclothes weren’t enough to hide the long, thick bulge angling towards his hip.

He glanced down at it now, then back at her. “I’m going to take these off.”

Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t force a sound out. All she could do was watch as he undid the strings on the braies, then slid his thumbs inside the waistband and pushed them down. She knew full well how men were constructed, knew about the male organ that lay soft on its bulbous bed until it was time for lovemaking. For some reason Ramsay didn’t like her looking at him while he was naked; that was how she’d gained some of her own scars.

Now she understood why. Compared to Sandor, Ramsay had been a field mouse. A _small_ field mouse, at that. Whereas Sandor wasn’t a dog—he was a horse. _It won’t fit, it can’t fit, how_ , he brain madly caroled as she stared at the thick shaft with its half-covered bulbous head rising from a nest of black fur.

He reached down and gripped himself, squeezing lightly. “Don’t worry. Not until you’re ready.”

She was _never_ going to be ready for that. Her heart hammered as he came towards her. Instead of pushing her back and climbing on top of her, however, he knelt carefully at her feet, resting his hands on her knees. The combination of his supplicant position and the warmth from his palms soaking through her skirt helped drive back her panic. “I mean it, little bird," he said, voice low. "Not until you’re ready. But that’s why we need to do some other things first.”

She nodded jerkily. “Like … preparing me.”

“Yes.” His scent was stronger now, mixing with the aroma from the evergreens, and somehow it felt like a caress. “I'm going to get into bed. Go put on your nightgown. I don’t want you getting cold.”

He shifted to the side and she got up. She didn’t quite flee to the wardrobe, but she knew she wasn’t slow about it, either. Her heart was beating faster again, and this time it wasn’t purely out of fear. Yes, she was nervous about his ( _cock, you’ve heard the soldiers call it that_ ) manly part, but the rest of his body was a thing of masculine beauty. He had his own scars, of course, but so did her father. It was part and parcel of being a warrior. She couldn't help wondering how he’d received the scar on his thigh, what opponent he'd fought who had laid his flesh open like that. _He limps a bit on that side when it’s cold. I’ll speak to the maester in the morning, see if there’s anything I can do to help. Perhaps a warm compress, or something to ease the pain—_

“Little bird?”

She glanced over her shoulder. Sandor had slid under the blankets and furs on the bed, settling them around his waist. “Is there a wight in there or something?”

“No, sorry. I'm woolgathering.” She grabbed the first nightgown she saw and finished unfastening her bodice. It and her heavy overskirt went on a nearby chair, to be washed by her maid in the morning. Bracing herself, she slid out of her shift and into the nightgown in three quick movements. He’d already seen her back, so the scars on her bottom wouldn't shock him. He would see even more if the evening went as she expected.

The nighttime coolness of the room became more noticeable and she hurried back to the bed, sliding in beside him. He radiated heat like a warming pan and she wanted to snuggle up, basking in the unexpected comfort. “You’re warm.”

“As I said, it’s the fur.” He turned on his side. ”Come here.”

Wishing her fear would go away, she curled up next to him, sharing his pillow so that she could look into his eyes. She could still see his scars as well, but somehow they didn't matter as much anymore. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For behaving like a scared little girl.”

“You’re not a scared little girl.” One large hand rose and stroked her cheek. “You’re wary, and with good reason. But I’m not Bran. I can’t read your mind. If something hurts or scares you tonight, you need to tell me. Can you do that?”

She nodded. Her nerves had started to settle, and that long-dormant feeling he’d woken earlier in the day began to make itself known again. “Kiss me?”

****

Sandor leaned forward, gently claiming her mouth again. This time he was ready for it, for the softness and sweetness of kissing her. None of the whores had ever wanted to kiss him; they could barely look at him most of the time. It never bothered him too much. He was far more interested in what lay at the other end of their bodies.

But his brave little bird could kiss him without flinching, and even seemed to enjoy it. Gods knew he did. He pulled her into his arms and continued kissing her, happy when her lips opened and her tongue came out to play. He’d never known how good that could feel, how it made his cock stand up without so much as a touch.

 _Women like to be kissed._ The squire’s advice rang in his mind. _And not just on the mouth, either._ The spot beneath their ears, their neck, along the line of the jaw. Cheeks, eyelids, chin. Reluctantly he pulled himself from her mouth and worshiped all of these places, finally winding up in the notch between her collar bones. The way her chest heaved reminded him that there were more things to kiss lower down.

He plucked at her collar strings. “Can I undo these?”

She nodded, hazy. He drew the knot loose, opening the front of her thin gown and exposing one ripe breast like snow topped with the palest pink berry. Mouth watering, he bent towards it.

She shrank into the mattress and he stopped. “What is it?”

He heard her throat click. “Ramsay. He used to like biting me there. Pinching me.”

 _Cocksucking bastard._ “I’m not going to do that.” It was an effort to keep his tone low and calm. “A kiss, that’s all.”

Her chin jerked in a nod. He brushed his mouth over the pink berry, then around it. _Don’t suck like you’re trying to get marrow from a bone,_ Podrick’s voice said at the back of his head. _Lick and kiss. If she likes that, nibble carefully with your lips over your teeth. If she likes_ that _, then you can suck, but with care._

 _I’ll fucking have him knighted for this._ He followed the advice and the little berry ripened under his mouth, swelling until it was firm and thick. A small noise came from Sansa, but it didn't sound like fear or pain. “Is that good?”

Her back rounded up a bit, pushing her breast closer to his mouth. “Yes.”

He wanted to laugh, he truly did. _Fuck knighthood—if the dragon queen can make the smith a lord, she can make Payne one, as well._ He moved to the other breast, repeating the action. A light sweat had come out on her skin and he licked at it, gathering her taste. “I like this, Sansa.”

“So do I.”

He pushed himself up, studying her face. Pink had spread across both cheekbones and she seemed more relaxed, now.

 _Always ask. A woman appreciates that._ He plucked at her nightgown. “Would you take this off for me?”

Their gazes met, and he could see the hesitation there. “All right.” She sat up a bit, tugging up the thin fabric. It required her to wriggle in ways that made her breasts wobble juicily. His cock throbbed hard at the sight, and he wanted to growl in anticipation. _Not until she’s ready. I promised._

She finally pulled off the gown and tossed it to the side before lying back down, a goddess in ivory and coral. His goddess. Between her slender legs was a cloud of flossy hair a few shades darker than the hair on her head. He brushed his fingertips across it, enjoying the way the curls felt against his fingertips. “I’ve always wondered what color this was,” he rumbled. “Red as a sunset.”

She glanced down. “What color did you think it was?”

“I don’t know. Could have been blonde, could have been brown. Could have been orange, for all I knew.”

She laughed at that. “It’s never been orange, thank you very much.”

“Well, how did I know?” He kissed her stomach, the little cup of her navel, the hipbones that jutted out like wings, and all the while he could smell her, the tangy smell of sweet, soft quim. It was faint, but if he did his job right it would get stronger. “Open your legs for me, Sansa.”

She tensed. “Trust me,” he said quietly. “No pain. I’m going to prepare you.”

A shuddering breath, and she did what he asked.

****

Opening herself like that clawed at Sansa's soul. She wondered if any man could ever understand the sheer vulnerability of the act, exposing the tender core of herself and hoping, praying, that this time it would be different, that she would be touched with care and gentleness.

Sandor had promised to do just that. But he was far enough down the bed that he couldn’t take her, even if he wanted to. _He’s big, but he’s not that big._ And his fascination with the triangle of hair there was boggling.

Her tenseness increased when he moved between her thighs, his shoulders spreading her wide. “Never looked at one like this before,” he mumbled, using his thumbs to open her inner flesh. He was careful with it, at least, which was good. “Up close, so to speak. No wonder you’re complicated.”

She had no idea what he meant. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she snapped.

She was instantly sorry for the sharpness in her words. But he looked up at her calmly. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He kissed her nether hair, then one thigh, and the other, trailing inward across the soft, tender skin. She expected him to stop when he came close to the place opened by his thumbs, but he didn't—

She jumped in shock when he laid a kiss there, beard bristly against the sensitive flesh. “Sandor, what are you _doing_?”

“Trying something,” he mumbled.

She felt his mouth on her again, his tongue licking this time. When it touched a certain spot, a spike of sensual fire flared up through her. “Oh!”

He raised his head. “Was that good?”

She struggled to find her voice. “Y-yes.”

“Well, then.” His head went back down and his tongue continued its delicate dance between her thighs, sending up more of that wondrous pleasure. _I never knew, never even thought, oh Gods, please don’t stop, don’t stop—_

He didn’t. Instead, he ignited a physical joy she had never imagined, making her feel like she was riding a wild ocean wave. When it finally, finally crested she crammed her fist into her mouth to muffle a scream, her back arching in fierce pleasure, anchored by his relentless, loving mouth.

He finally came up, panting and grinning. “You taste good. Salt and sweet at the same time.”

 _Salt and sweet?_ She did her best to gather the shattered shards of her wits, reaching down a shaking hand to stroke his hair. “Is that what you mean by preparing me?”

“Yes. You should be slick inside now.” He cautiously slid a thick finger in her, and it went in like a well-oiled dagger into a sheath. “You can take me and it won’t hurt.”

What a simple thing. What an _amazing_ thing. She wanted to cry at it, but that would give him the wrong idea. “So, are you … I mean, if I’m ready…”

His mouth twisted. To her surprise he moved back up, but sprawled at her side instead of climbing over her. His arm curved in invitation. “Come here.”

Confused, she fitted herself into his embrace. “Aren’t we going to…”

“Fuck?” He laughed softly. “Yes, we are, little bird. But I’ve had an idea. Get on top of me.”

Under his guidance she wound up straddling his thighs. When she tried to draw the bedclothes around her, embarrassed at her nakedness, he took her hands, his grip gentle but firm. “I want to look at you. You’re beautiful, remember?”

His thick erection lay splayed at an angle across his furry belly, and she glanced at it with no small amount of trepidation. _He’s so big, and I’m, I’m_ not _. He promised me he wouldn’t hurt me, but how—_

A finger urged her chin up and she met his gaze. “I want you on top,” he said patiently. “That way, you can decide how much of me to take, and how soon. Or not, if you choose. I won’t move until you tell me I can. Use me for your pleasure, little bird. Make me your plaything.”

She couldn't understand his meaning at first. He was giving her … control. Willingly, with no complaint or condition. To choose whether or not to mount him, whether or not to take him in her body. He was hers to do with as she liked.

No man had ever offered that to her before. She never even dreamed it was possible. But here Sandor was, opening himself to her with this priceless gift.

She stared down at him, at his scarred face, dark eyes glowing with emotion. Need, yes, but there was something tender there as well. _You love me a little, don’t you? You must, to give yourself like this._

She wanted to give him a gift as well. She couldn’t say she loved him, not yet, although she could sense the possibility on the horizon. So she would give him the next best thing.

She would give him herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you hate me right now. I'm sorry, truly. I'll make it up to you in the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns an important lesson about the virtue of patience. Afterwards, Sandor tells her about a little girl named Eleanor, and Sansa asks Arya for a favor.

Sansa reached down and slid her hand around Sandor’s shaft, squeezing it experimentally. Ramsay had never let her do this, always preferring to push and shove her into position until he could enter her. To finally touch a man like this was a revelation. It felt like hot silk over a core of Valyrian steel, and surprised her with its heaviness. The thin sleeve of soft, wrinkled skin around the tip had retracted partially now, exposing the plummy head, and a pearl of clear liquid had welled up in its tiny eye.

Sandor sucked in a breath. “Stroke it.”

She did. Her fingers couldn’t close all the way around, but she added a twist to the sliding motion in order to touch every bit of him, finishing up by running her palm over the head. Apparently that was a wise choice because his head rocked back into the pillow, hips thrusting up into her grip. “ _Sansa_. Fuck, your hand is so soft.”

The beaded liquid added a bit of lubrication, but too soon her palm started dragging over that hot, smooth skin. Quickly she licked her hand, intending to wet it. The taste of salt, musk, and something more primal hit her tongue, unlike anything she’d ever tasted before.

She decided she liked it. She licked once more, depositing more saliva on her palm, then started stroking him again. He reached up and curled his fingers around the bottom of the headboard, sinew standing out in his chest and arms. “You’re killing me with pleasure, little bird.”

She _liked_ this. “You know what they say about sauce for the goose. I’m simply returning the favor.”

And _that_ gave her a delightfully naughty idea—there was a way they could both enjoy this. She hitched forward, far enough so that his shaft now rested against her mound, and rose up to rub against it. Her intimate flesh parted and the tiny bit that had brought her so much pleasure burst to life again as it rubbed against his shaft.

 _His cock. His thick, hot cock._ The coarse words added an illicit spice to the act. She rubbed harder, rocking back and forth. Heat began to build between her thighs again, and she could feel herself growing wetter, slicker against that lovely hard cock in her hand.

Suddenly his hands snaked down and clamped on her thighs, stopping her in mid-rock. “I’m close,” he said harshly, face flushed under his beard. The pale scar stood out against it like candlelight on wine. “You can bring me off like this if you want.”

She considered. She was fairly sure that she could reach her peak as well this way, although he seemed much closer than she was. Or—

Biting her lip, she rose up higher, lifting herself over him. Guided by her hand, his cockhead slid against her now-slippery flesh, bumping into the entrance to her body. _My quim._ Marriage was turning out to be far more educational than she’d imagined.

Sandor’s eyes had widened at her movement, in surprise or hope she couldn’t tell. “It’s your choice, my lady,” he panted.

It was. And _she_ was. That was what made this so wonderful.

She began to ease down onto him. Now she truly appreciated his offer to put her on top—it was _effort_ , relaxing around the large shaft pushing into her. She had to stop every few seconds or so, let her inner walls get used to the stretch. There was pain as well, she couldn’t deny that, but she knew instinctively that it was a good pain, the kind that would go away once the pleasure began. Her own wetness from what he’d done with his mouth helped, slicking the way.

She was halfway down when he let out a loud groan. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Is that good?” she said, concentrating.

“Yessssssss—”

She couldn’t help laughing at the look that rolled over his face, that expression of silly, stunned male delight. The laugh did something to her innards and she slid the rest of the way down, feeling him bump against something deep inside her. It felt incredibly strange, to be so full.

But something about it was incredibly good, as well. “What do I do now?” she asked.

He lifted his head, grinning at her. “Ride me, my lady. Use me as your noble fucking steed.”

She laughed again, which caused him to groan happily, and rose up again. This time the slide down was easier, and she could feel prickles of pleasure at the friction.

After some experimentation she fell into a rhythm, gliding up and down. It felt good, now, and she loved the way Sandor’s face contracted in lustful glee every time she sank onto him. But she didn’t feel the same thrill she had when his mouth had been on her. That had been glorious.

She slowed, and some of the haze cleared from his eyes. “What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?”

“No. It feels good. But it was better with your mouth.”

He scowled. For a moment she thought she’d made him angry, but then his expression cleared. “He said—oh, right.”

Before she could ask who _he_ was, Sandor licked his thumb and brought it to the junction of their body, stroking it over her wet flesh. “Fuck, where is it?” he mumbled.

She discovered what he was hunting for when he brushed over that lovely spot. “There!”

“Oh, good.” His thumb started rolling in a slow circle over the spot, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. Moaning, she started riding him again, and now the friction built in addition to what he was doing to her, pushing her into that realm of sensual joy. It felt as if a cord between her hips was tightening, growing more and more taut until she could play a song of happiness on it, the thrumming note rising and rising—

She screamed when it broke, ecstasy radiating through her as her inner muscles rippled and clenched around him. He howled her name in response, one hand like an iron bar on her hip and the other playing her like a lute as he thrust up hard one last time, growling her name.

It took what seemed like forever for her flesh to stop spasming. When it finally did she slumped over, bracing her hands on the thick muscles of his upper arms and trying to catch her breath. “Oh. Oh, _my_.”

His grip eased, caressing her thigh now. “Are you all right?”

 _All right._ That seemed so weak a description. She was elated, exhausted, and would ache like blazes in the morning. “Yes. Are you?”

He laughed, the low, contented sound of a satisfied man. “Oh, yes. I’m the happiest, luckiest bastard in the Seven Kingdoms right now.”

Disengaging was a bit clumsy but he helped her through it, pulling her down into his arms afterwards. A trickle of fluid slid over her inner thighs and for a moment she wondered if she was bleeding. _No, it’s just his seed._

Bran’s voice came to her: _Your children, playing in the courtyard here at Winterfell. Very tall, with dark eyes. They looked to be fine warriors._

Did that mean she carried his child in her womb now? Or would he return once Daenerys sat on the Iron Throne and give her a child then? Did she dare ask Bran to look for her? Because if Sandor didn’t come back from King’s Landing…

_No. Don’t think about that now. Tomorrow will come soon enough._

“Is it supposed to be like that?” she murmured.

“Like what?”

“So wonderful.”

He tilted her head up to look at him, and she saw an astounded joy in his eyes. Leaning down for a kiss, he whispered against her lips, “Yes. It’s supposed to be like that, little bird.”

****

The fire had grown low in the hearth once they finished cleaning up and crawled back under the warm covers. Sansa fit in his arms as if she’d been made for them.

“I like your fur.” She toyed with a thick curl on his chest. “You should have been a northerner. You’re equipped for the weather up here.”

“Well, I married a good northern lass eventually. Our boys will be set for the winter.” He captured her hand as a thought occurred to him. “Do you think I gave you a child tonight?”

She hesitated. “It’s too early to tell.”

Something about her response sounded off. He shifted to look at her directly. “What did Bran tell you?”

Lashes swept down over those blue Tully eyes, as effective as any weapon against his heart. “He saw my children playing in the courtyard at Winterfell. They were tall and dark-eyed, and they were good with weapons.”

He settled back, strangely pleased. “Children. Then I make it back from King’s Landing.”

“Unless I’m carrying twins.”

“Twins.” _Fuck me._ And he’d never planning on siring children at all, not even bastards. A sudden, intensely sweet image came to him, of Sansa in a rocking chair, nursing their child at her breast. Other children, some with brown hair and others with red, surrounded her until one broke away and dashed to him, demanding to be picked up with a bossy, “Dada!”

He could almost feel that small, happy weight in his arms. His children wouldn’t be afraid of him. They wouldn’t think twice about Dada’s funny face, something they had seen since the day they were born. He would hold them close and protect them, just as he would do with their mother. They would all be loved, and they would be Starks, a whole pack of them, forming a united front against all enemies.

 _Assuming you make it back from King’s Landing._ “If I did give you a child,” he broke off, clearing his throat, “or children, and I don’t come back—”

Her arms tightened around him. “Don’t say that.”

That surprised him. _You do care for me a little, don’t you, little bird?_ He kissed her hair, breathing in her scent. “If you’re with child and it’s a boy, name him whatever you like, after your father or one of your brothers. But if it’s a girl, I want you to name her Eleanor.”

Sansa was silent for a moment. _Probably wanted to name a girl after her mother. But this is important._ “Was that your mother’s name?”

He sighed. “My sister’s.”

“You—” She stared at him. “You have a sister?”

“Had.” A bleakness rose in his soul, pushing back the contentment of the night. “Eleanor was the youngest of us. She was a bonny little thing, sweet and kind, and she loved stories about knights and ladies—much like you did. You would have liked her.” And Eleanor would have loved Sansa, he was certain of that. He could easily imagine his wife and his sister as the best of friends. “After Gregor burned me, she would sit by my bedside and sing to me, trying to comfort me.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, fingertips on his scar. “She must have loved you very much.”

“She did. And the singing even helped a bit. I think I was just happy that someone in my family gave a shit about me. But Gregor didn’t like it. He’d come in and tell her to shut up, that he was tired of her screeching. She’d stop until he left, then pick up where she left off. I should have known what he’d do, but I was in so much pain…” His arms tightened around Sansa as the memories marched through his mind, each one black and cold. “I was still healing when she died. Father said it was an accident, that Eleanor had tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs. The maester said that her neck broke instantly.” But he’d seen the small, self-satisfied smile on Gregor’s face as a grieving Bryor Clegane told him that his little sister was gone forever. “I didn’t believe them. They put her in the sept that night, and after everyone was in bed I crept in to see her. They had a cloth stretched over her and I lifted it up. Her gown was loose around the neck, and I saw the marks there—a blue oval blotch over the front of her throat, and four longer ones in the back.” The bruises had been stark against her grey-white skin. Even a maester would have known what had happened, but his father had chosen to protect Gregor once again. “My murdering cunt of a brother strangled her with one hand, then threw her down the stairs, all because she tried to ease my pain.”

“Oh, Sandor.” The grief in Sansa’s voice echoed his own. “I’m so sorry.”

He could still remember being that scarred little boy staring down at the body of his baby sister, the coldness of the sept surrounding them and the even colder rage growing inside him. “That was when I made my pledge to the Stranger that I would kill Gregor, no matter how long it took. Father died a few years after that, on a hunting trip with Gregor. Another ‘accident,’ they said. Gregor became Lord Clegane, and took a wife. She died. Then he took another, and she died as well.” His smile was bitter. “When he joined the Kingsguard, the title came to me, which didn’t make him happy. I was the only member of my family who survived him, barely. That’s why I’m going back to King’s Landing. I have to kill him myself. Now that I have you, and perhaps this pup here,” he rested a hand on her belly, “I won’t be able to rest until he’s dead at my feet.”

Her expression sharpened, blue eyes like sapphires behind the sheen of tears. “I won’t try to talk you out of it. Just promise me you’ll kill him and come back to Winterfell. Don’t leave me to raise your children alone.”

His heart ached at the thought. “I can’t—”

“ _Promise_ me, Sandor. As your wife and your lady, promise me you’ll come back.”

She’d used her Lady of Winterfell voice, impossible to disobey. He wanted to tell her the truth, that even this strange, grey-skinned version of Gregor was still fearsomely strong and deadly. That even if he managed to kill Gregor, he’d probably die as well. Before tonight, he would have been satisfied with that, tumbling headlong into one of the seven hells as punishment for all the sins he’d committed in his miserable life, as long as Gregor fell with him.

Now, though, he had something to live for. _Which almost guarantees that you’ll die in King’s Landing, you twat. The Stranger knows what you owe him, and a new wife won’t make him change his mind._

Still, perhaps the Mother would take pity on him for Sansa’s sake. He took her hand and kissed it, holding his against his heart. “I promise, my lady. I’ll return. In the meantime, you’ve got more than enough to keep you busy—rebuilding the keep, tending to your people, maintaining the food stores, keeping that bastard blacksmith out of Arya’s bed—”

Sansa gasped. “What?”

“They’re fucking, little bird. You can practically smell it on them.” He’d witnessed the reunion of his former burden and her smith lord that morning in the Great Hall, how they’d staggered into each other’s arms before she’d dragged him off to the baths. “Now that he’s a lord, he can always marry her and make her a lady, I suppose.” He smirked. “I’d pay to watch that proposal. She’ll knock him on his arse so fast he won’t know what hit him.”

Sansa groaned, curling closer to him. “Now I have to worry about that, as well. If they’re sharing a bed, they should be married.”

“I think that’s out of your hands.” He kissed her again. “Besides, what do you think she'd do if you insisted they marry?”

“Laugh in my face, and then move him into her rooms to spite me.” She sighed. “You’re right. I was thinking of her reputation, but it’s not as if she ever wanted to be a lady in the first place. She’s … _Arya_. If they want to, well—”

“Fuck,” he said helpfully.

She poked him. “Then I won’t say anything about it. Besides, she’s the Hero of Winterfell. Heroes can make their own rules.”

“Mm.” It was a quality the Stark sisters shared, whether or not Sansa knew it. She had been meek and obedient once upon a time, but after surviving Joffrey, Littlefinger, and Bolton she had learned how to make her own rules, as well.

Nevertheless, a small part of him still grieved for the gentle maiden she had been. “I should have taken you with me that night,” he said quietly. “I’ll always be sorry about that. It would have saved you pain.”

She pressed a kiss against his chest. “I made the choice to stay, remember? Besides, if you had returned me to my family, I would have died at the Red Wedding.”

That never even occurred to him. His arms tightened around her. “I would have killed each and every fucking Frey myself,” he growled.

“Arya saved you the trouble. I’m just grateful that you took care of her. If you hadn’t put her on the path she needed to be on, the Night King would have won. We’re all still alive, thanks to her.” Her mouth quirked. “Although I still don’t know why you saved her. You couldn’t have been that desperate for the money.”

At the time, he told himself that Arya Stark was a valuable hostage, a moneybag on two legs who would outfit him well for his escape to Essos. Now he understood the real reason behind his actions. “It wasn’t just the money. You’d already lost so much of your family. I didn’t want you to lose your only sister, as well.” He snorted. “Mind you, I regretted it the first time she opened her mouth.”

He could still see Arya sitting rigidly against him as he hauled her back and forth across Westeros, trying to find any remnant of the Stark family willing to pay for her. Her cold glares and snotty comments, the flash of short-lived triumph as she tried to drive that pin of hers through his gut, his name on that damned list of hers. “I thought if I got her to the North, she’d find her way back to you eventually.”

Sansa shifted, laying a hand on his chest so that she could prop her chin on it. “But Brienne found you. She told me so. You could have handed Arya over then and there.”

He’d had no reason to believe _Ser_ Brienne’s story that she’d given Catelyn Stark a vow to protect her daughters, especially since the blonde bitch had the Imp’s squire with her and was carrying that sword covered with Lannister gold. But that wasn’t the only reason he’d battled the lady knight for Arya. Something had changed between the two of them on their travels, not a gentling so much as a solidifying. The way they fought Polliver and his men in that dirty little tavern, and a triumphant Arya riding out on her own horse while he gorged on chicken. Her watching as he dispatched the dying old man with a merciful heart strike, and her unhesitating imitation that killed the crazed biter who had attacked him. The little wolf bitch had somehow moved from hostage to companion and fellow killer when he wasn’t looking, and if it hadn’t been for that damned infected bite he would have kept her with him. _And why not? By all the gods, I’m as much her father as Ned Stark ever was._

But that was too complicated to explain, especially when all he wanted to do was lie quietly with Sansa in his arms. “I suppose she'd started growing on me. Like a fungus.” He paused. “You don’t have to tell her I said that. I don’t want her putting me on her bloody list again.”

She chuckled. “You’re funny.”

“Am I?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought anything was humorous. Apparently marriage was changing him already. “I like hearing you laugh.”

“Good.” She relaxed, a long, soft weight against him. “I like you, Sandor.” It was a soft mumble, almost lost against his chest. But he still heard it.

In the privacy of his own mind he could be honest. _And I love you, little bird. Perhaps I’ll be brave enough to tell you that some day._

****

The soft glimmer through the curtains woke Sansa just after dawn. The huge, warm body in bed next to her startled her at first until she saw Sandor’s head poking out of the furs, his breath a gentle rumble in the still air. _Oh, yes. I’m a married woman again. Only this time I’m happy about it._

Her cheer lasted until she remembered Sandor telling her about his brother and sister, and his journey down to King’s End to make sure Gregor Clegane could never threaten them again. She made a decision. After checking to make sure he was still asleep, she slid out of bed and donned her nightgown and a heavy robe.

Arya’s room was down the hallway from hers, across from her childhood bedroom. She rapped softly on the heavy oak door, wondering what she was going to say if Gendry Baratheon was in Arya’s bed. _Forgive me, my lord, but I need to speak with my sister. Please, don’t get up._

She didn’t need to worry. Arya opened the door, already dressed, and Sansa could see over her shoulder that the bed was empty. “Morning,” her sister said, leaning against the doorframe and folding her arms. “I take it last night went well?”

 _Much better than well. Did you know we have a spot between our legs that causes the most amazing pleasure? And Sandor looks like a Dornish statue when naked. Oh, and as for what’s between_ his _legs—_ She stomped down on the mad words dancing in her head. “Quite well, thank you.”

Arya relaxed. “Good. I won’t have to kill him, then.”

“No, you won’t. In fact, that’s why I’m here. Can we talk?”

Arya stepped back, waving her in. She was about to ask her favor when she saw the bag on the bed. It was the same one that contained those gruesome faces Arya had brought back with her from Essos. “What are you doing?”

Arya stepped in front of the bag, blocking her view. “Packing. I’m leaving for King’s Landing today.”

That astonished her. “Why? Jon and Daenerys aren’t leaving for days, and Gendry’s here—”

She could have bit her tongue at the subtly stricken look on Arya’s face. Her sister turned away, stuffing a tunic into the bag. “He asked me to marry him last night,” she said over her shoulder. “I said no. He’s a lord, now. He needs a proper lady to run Storm’s End for him, someone like you. I can’t do that. It’s not who I am.”

Declarations that she _could_ , she could learn, Gendry loved her, crowded into Sansa’s throat. But she wouldn’t speak them. She could see her sister now for who she truly was. “No, you’re not.”

The smaller woman’s shoulders relaxed. “You agree with me?”

“I do. You’re not meant to be the great lady of a castle. Father was wrong. You’re meant to be whatever you are now. A warrior. An assassin. A hero.”

Arya turned, glowering. “I’m not a hero.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s one title you will have to learn to live with. You not only saved all of us, you saved all of mankind.”

Arya didn’t seem convinced by her words. She decided not to push, especially considering the huge favor she was about to ask. “If you’re going to King’s Landing, would you do something for me?”

A small smirk played over her sister’s mouth. “Want me to pick up something you left behind?”

Joffrey’s head might be nice. She could put it in a place of honor in the Great Hall. “Not exactly. Sandor’s going there as well, but not to fight with the army. He’s going to kill the Mountain.” The words felt like knives in her heart. “I want you to travel with him.”

Arya’s thick, expressive eyebrows rose in shock. “You must be joking. Sansa, I left him to die— _after_ I stole his silver.”

“I know. I think that impressed him, to be honest.” She could still hear the gruff fondness in his voice as he’d talked about Arya. Her husband cared for his new sister-in-law far more than he cared to let on. “Will you do it?”

“What about Jon? I thought you wanted me to watch over him.”

 _I’m sorry, Jon. But you’ve made your choice. Now I have to make mine._ “Jon will have an army and two dragons to protect him. Sandor is alone. But if you travel together, you can guard each other’s back.” She tried to push down a pang of worry. “And I suspect he may need some help when he faces Gregor.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. He’s good, but the Mountain isn’t human anymore from what I’ve heard.” Arya's mouth pursed in thought. “Still, we may be able to help each other. He’s going there to kill the Mountain, and I’m going there to kill Cersei. Since those two are usually in the same room from what I’ve heard, we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Sansa struggled to hide her own shock. “You’re going to kill _Cersei_?”

That cold, composed expression came down over her sister’s face, turning her into a stranger. “I’m the only one who can. Weak as they are, the dragon queen’s army may not be able to break through her defenses. But Cersei won’t be expecting me.”

The horrible thing of it was, she could see the logic in it. Cersei Lannister would be expecting an invading army with dragons, or perhaps some clever assault planned by her brother. She’d never think to look twice at one small woman cowering in the background … until it was too late. “No, she won’t.” And there was absolutely nothing Sansa could do about it, either, except pray for Arya’s success. “Will you travel with Sandor, then?”

Arya shoved a last shirt into the bag, buckling it shut. “I’m leaving this afternoon. I’m taking the Kingsroad as far as the Crossroads Inn, then I’ll be using backroads. Tell him I’ll meet him near Cerwyn, but I won’t wait long.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, then hugged her sister, hoping that whatever training Arya had received in Essos would be good enough to outwit what awaited her in King’s Landing. “And good hunting.”

A rare spark of appreciation lit Arya's grey eyes when they separated. “You’re more of a wolf than I thought, Sansa.”

 _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ “I’ve learned from the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on this while listening to Florence + The Machine's cover of "Jenny of Oldstones" is one hell of a way to evoke a mood.
> 
> Once again, thanks to everyone for the kudos and comments. There's only one chapter left to this story, but I'll be starting the next in the series very soon. I'm reminded of Matt Tobey's wise words from Twitter: "Write as if David Benioff and DB Weiss will get to finish your story if you don’t."
> 
> Words to live by, eh? Stay tuned.
> 
> ADDED: Post S08e05: what. The actual. Fuck?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The troops are rallied to travel south, secrets are revealed, and Sansa makes a vow.

When Sansa returned to her rooms Sandor was peering blearily from the furs, scars pale against his rumpled hair. “Where were you?”

“Arya’s room.” She slipped out of her robe and nightgown and slid back into the cocoon of warmth under the covers. “I needed to speak to her.”

Sandor grunted as he wrapped his arms around her. “So, is the Hero of Winterfell waiting outside to kill me for ravishing her sister?”

“No. You’re safe.”

“Thank all the fucking gods for that.” He nuzzled her hair, and something warm and hard poked her hip. “We don’t have to get up just yet.”

No, they didn’t. Her maid wouldn’t arrive for another hour, if then. Sansa gave herself over to her new husband’s kisses and warm, calloused hands roaming everywhere on her body. She claimed that privilege as well, running her fingertips over his shoulders, the thick, crisp hair on his chest and belly, feeling the hard rises and dips of muscle underneath. She even dared to reach around and squeeze the firm rounds of his bottom. They were covered with a fine down, more delicate than the hair covering the rest of him, and she liked how it felt like coarse velvet against her palms.

He grinned at her blatantly possessive grip. “Never had a woman do that to me before.”

She squeezed again, loving the feel of him. “And no other woman had best do it to you in the future, or I’ll have her hands cut off.”

“Fierce little wolf, aren’t you?

“I’m glad you noticed.” She claimed his mouth, sucking on his lower lip before letting it slide from her mouth with a soft pop. “You’re mine, Lord Stark, and I keep what’s mine.”

“Good.” He flipped her onto her back, nudging her legs open with one thick thigh before nestling between them. “Because I feel the same way, Lady Stark.”

She was slightly sore from the previous night but that was to be expected. His hungry kisses and sensual touches had set off the now-familiar heat low in her belly, and she was wet and ready for him when he eased inside her.

“Mmph. This is the best way to wake up,” he muttered, taking an experimental thrust. “Buried in your lady’s sweet, tight quim.”

She couldn’t disagree with that. The ache was already dissolving, replaced by a delicious friction as he settled into a rolling thrust. She wrapped her legs around his hips, clinging to him, and remembered her dream of them lying together in the dark after escaping King’s Landing. _But reality is so much better._

His breath was hot on her cheek as he rocked into her, groaning under his breath. Her pleasure caught and began to rise, stoked by his enjoyment and the wondrous feeling of being filled by him, his cock stretching her inner muscles in the most luscious way.

He panted in her ear as he sped up. “ _Sansa_. My beautiful little bird. Fly for me.”

She did, clutching him close as the pleasure rolled through her like a storm. _Yes, I want this forever, I want you inside me, with me, love me—_

He roared out his own joy as he poured into her. Somehow this caused another, smaller crest to shudder through her and she bit his shoulder to stop herself from screaming.

Their panting slowed but he stayed where he was, careful to keep his weight off her, and gave her a grin that turned his scarred face almost handsome. “If that didn’t get you in pup, nothing will,” he said in satisfaction.

She had to agree with him. “Proud of yourself, my lord?”

He glanced at the oval of tooth marks on his shoulder. “Very much so, my lady.”

Much as she would have preferred to spend the rest of the morning in bed with her new husband, that wasn’t to be. Soon after they finished her maid tapped respectfully on the door. “My lady, there’s a message from Queen Daenerys,” came through the thick wood.

Dragging herself from her post-coital haze, Sansa slid from the bed and threw on her robe to take the note. When she read it, she wished she had some of her husband’s skills in cursing. “I need to get dressed now.”

The maid curtsied and bustled off. “What’s wrong?” Sandor asked, sitting up.

“The dragon queen’s holding a war council at midday.” She went to the wardrobe and selected a black leather bodice. The maid came back in with a clean skirt and undergarments, shooing Sansa to the dressing table to brush and plait her hair. “I have to attend. Knowing her, she’ll want to leave for the south immediately.”

She could see Sandor make a face in the mirror’s reflection. “I don’t have to go, do I?”

“To the meeting? You’re a Stark and my consort, now—you’re entitled.”

But she wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. “I’m not one for strategy and planning. I’m better at taking orders and killing people. You can tell me about it afterwards.”

That answered her next question. She had been worried that he would leave while she was speaking with Daenerys, Jon, and the others about the next steps. The maid finished and she nodded her dismissal before turning to Sandor. “You’ll stay until I get back?”

“I will. But then I need to go. It’s a long road to the Red Keep.”

She remembered Arya’s promise. “You don’t have to go alone. Arya’s going, as well.”

His face grew grim as she told him of her sister’s plans. “She may be the only one who can get close enough to kill Cersei, true enough," he admitted. "And I suppose two swords are better than one. I’ll ride with her.” He gave her a dour smile. “And make sure she gets back in one piece.”

 _I want both of you to come back in one piece._ She went to the bed, wishing that she could crawl back and stay there, pretend that the horrors of the world weren't happening. Instead, she sat on the edge and took his hand, drawing strength from it. “Thank you. And I’m sorry about having our morning interrupted like this.”

Heavy shoulders shrugged. “It’s what rulers have to do. And you’re a ruler now, little bird.” He leaned over, capturing her mouth in a hot, sweet kiss. “Go get dressed and let the dragon queen know what the Lady of Winterfell thinks.”

****

Once Sansa was gone her maid poked her head back in, a bundle of something in her hands. “Would you like breakfast to be brought up, my lord?”

Sandor had to give the woman credit for not blinking at his face or half-exposed body. “I’ll get something from the kitchens.”

“Very well, my lord.” She deposited the bundle on the bench at the foot of the bed. “I brought up your clothes from your old room. I hope that’s all right.”

He was about to mutter something dismissive when it felt like Sansa poked him again, only in his mind. _Be polite, you miserable old shit._ “Thank you.”

That was the right thing to say because the maid curtsied and left. Naked, he got out of bed, picking up the old linen shirt on top of the laundered clothes. Someone had carefully re-mended all the various tears and rips he’d clumsily sewn during his travels. Curious, he sniffed it. It smelled like laundry soap and something herbal, a cool green scent he associated with Sansa.

 _Good. I’ll carry her with me this way._ He finished dressing and strapped on his sword, then wandered down to the kitchens. Like most of the cooks he’d known, the ruler of the Winterfell kitchen liked those with big appetites and was happy enough to supply him with thick slices of fresh bread, cheese, and a hot, crispy slice of mutton, as well as a flagon of ale. He layered the food into a clumsy sandwich, taking big bites as he walked around the keep. Some hallways were still impassable, dusty and choked with broken stone, and he’d had to double back more than once. But it wouldn’t last—the workers he saw were already busy clearing away rubble and beginning the task of repairing Winterfell. He’d been around enough lords to know that he should be talking with them, finding out the extent of the damage, but his new rank still didn’t seem real.

 _I’m Sansa’s husband._ No, that didn’t seem real, either, although he could still feel the warm weight of her breasts in his palms and her long, lean body under his. He’d gone from being a second son to the lord of a pissant little tower house on the west coast, to Joffrey’s sworn shield, a member of the Kingsguard, a forsworn sellsword, the beleaguered companion of Arya Stark, a member of Ray’s congregation, a reluctant soldier in the Brotherhood without Banners, a warrior in the Great War, and finally third in command of the largest kingdom in Westeros behind Sansa and Jon (and in that order; his mopey pup of a brother-in-law might be Warden of the North, but Sansa held the real power).

 _So what do I do now?_ He’d promised Sansa that he wouldn’t leave until she got back, but he didn’t want to walk around the battered halls like some stupid lost boy, and he didn’t want to brood in their room. _Where else does everyone here go when their mind’s a muddle?_

The answer came to him. _I can hear you laughing at me, Ray, you old cunt. Fine. The godswood it is._

After getting his coat, he headed out to the sacred grove at the side of the main keep. In the day it looked surprisingly welcoming, with the trees iced with white snow and squirrels darting here and there between the trunks. What he didn’t expect was to find the Stark clan gathered under the huge weirwood tree in their furs and black leather, tense as green recruits before a battle.

They all turned to stare at him. He held up his hands quickly. “I’ll go.”

“No.” That was Sansa, stern and lovely. “You’re my consort and a Stark. You’ll stay.”

“Sansa!” Jon’s gaze whipped between the two of them. “He’s not family. And he’s been forsworn before.”

“He is family.” That from Arya, and he couldn’t have been more surprised if the Maiden had leaned down from her heaven and kissed him on the lips right then and there. “He’s killed to protect me. He’ll kill or die to protect Sansa. He fought with us against the Night King, and he’s Sansa’s husband now. That makes him one of us.”

“As for being forsworn, he won’t do it again.” Sansa’s blue Tully eyes were sharp as they turned to him. “Sandor, Jon is about to tell us something. Swear that you won’t tell another living soul.”

He studied her, then the Warden of the North. Whatever it was, it was eating the other man alive. “I swear it,” he said, joining Sansa and resting a hand on her shoulder.

Surrendering, Jon nodded at his younger brother. “Tell them.”

Bran’s chin came up. “Jon isn’t the bastard son of Ned Stark. He’s the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I saw them wed, and I saw his birth. He isn’t our brother—he’s our cousin, Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

Sandor felt his wife’s body go rigid under his palm. “ _What_?”

“It’s true,” Jon said. He sounded miserable about it. “Samwell Tarley found proof in a maester’s diary. Rhaegar and Lyanna were secretly married before my birth. He didn’t rape her—he loved her, and she loved him back. And I’m their trueborn son.”

Sansa shook her head, winter sunlight glinting in her hair. “Then … that makes you the rightful king—”

“I don’t want it!” Jon burst out. “The throne belongs to Daenerys. She’s my queen.”

“She’s your aunt,” Sansa retorted. “Your claim is the better one, and you know it.”

“ _I don’t want it!_ ” The shout echoed through the godswood, sending a flock of small birds whirring up towards the pale winter sky. “I’m only telling you so that you know your father never broke his marriage vow. He said I was his bastard to protect me from Robert Baratheon. He never betrayed your mother.”

Sandor saw emotion run through the three Stark siblings like lighting along a battlement’s edge. Even Bran seemed taken aback by this truth, staring at his sisters warily.

“Thank you, Jon,” Arya finally said. “It shouldn’t matter now, not after what we’ve all been through, but it’s still good to know.”

“Yes, it is,” Sansa agreed quietly. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re the rightful heir to the throne, not Daenerys.”

Jon shook his shaggy head. “She is my queen. I don’t want the damned throne. I will always bend the knee to her—”

“Because you’re fucking her.” The words left Sandor’s mouth before he could stop them.

Bran didn’t react but both Arya and Sansa gasped. “You can’t,” Sansa breathed. “You can’t be, Jon. I know you love her, but please, _please_ say you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know.” Jon had gone the color of his former bastard name, bruises and cuts standing out like rocks in an ice-covered stream. “When we started, I didn’t know. Since I found out I haven’t touched her, I swear.”

“Oh, gods.” Sandor felt Sansa tremble and slipped this arm around her shoulders to steady her. “Jon, that’s incest.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Both of the warden’s fists were clenched and he looked like he was about to puke his guts out onto the snow. “How do you think I feel, knowing what I’ve done with her?”

“She won’t care.” Arya’s cold words cut through the air, a faint accent on the _she_. “She’s a Targaryen—they’ve always bred with their own. Does she know?”

Jon nodded. “I told her before the battle.”

“And what was her reaction?”

For the first time since they’d met, Sandor felt sorry for the poor bastard. “She didn’t want me to tell anyone,” Jon admitted.

“Of course she didn’t.” Sansa’s tone was cutting. “She doesn’t want to give up her throne.”

“She’s not going to. And none of you can tell anyone. You’ve sworn it in front of the heart tree.” Jon threw a sudden, wary glance at him. “ _All_ of you.”

Sandor didn’t put much faith in any gods, old or new, but he wasn’t going to be forsworn again. “I’m not going to say anything,” he growled. “I don’t care whose ass winds up on the Iron Throne, yours or the little blonde’s. That’s for you to deal with. My job is to protect this family.”

Sansa’s gloved hand came up to cover his own. “We’ve sworn that we won’t tell anyone,” she said. “Thank you for letting us know that Father didn’t betray Mother.”

Nodding, Jon headed back towards the keep. Even under the large fur cape, Sandor could see his shoulders sag as if all the worries in the world were heaped on them. _Not too far from the truth, belike. The Targaryen doesn’t seem like someone who’ll fancy sharing power, even with her nephew._

Sansa’s attention turned to Bran. “You knew about this?”

“Yes,” the implacable young man said.

“And you didn’t think to tell us?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t ask.”

Two burning patches of color flamed to life in her cheeks. “Is there anything else important about our family that we should know, Bran?”

His head bowed slightly. “That’s an impossible question to answer, Sansa. It all depends on what you consider important.”

Sandor actually heard her jaw grind, she clenched her teeth so hard. Before she could say anything, Arya stepped between her siblings. “It doesn’t matter, now. What matters is getting rid of Cersei without losing too many of our men or letting Daenerys Targaryen run rampant over the North. You can grill Bran later once we’re gone.” Arya glanced at him. “I’ll see you on the Kingsroad, _brother_.” The smallest Stark gave her sister a quick embrace, then Bran, before jogging after Jon.

A whimsical little urge came to Sandor. “No hug for me?” he called.

She shot him an obscene Braavosi gesture over her shoulder. _That’s my girl._

"I’ll give you one." Sansa slid her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her. “I’m going to worry about both of you every moment while you’re down there,” she whispered against his jacket.

“I know, and I’m sorry.” He rested his scarred cheek on the cool silk of her hair. “I’ll make sure she gets home.”

“Make sure you both get home, my lord.” She held him as tightly as she could for another moment, then let him go. “I’ll go talk to the kitchens, make sure they have some travel food for the both of you. I’ll meet you in the stables.”

He watched her go, tall and brave and so fucking beautiful it hurt his heart. Dragging his gaze from Sansa’s retreating form, he turned to Bran. “Now that we’re alone, I need to know. Am I coming back?”

That calm, implacable face made him want to put a fist through it. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“I can’t tell you. That could change things.”

“What fucking use are you, then?”

Something about the still young man’s expression seemed amused. “Enough to warn you all about the Night King, and to act as bait for him.”

 _You’re still a man, then, for all your Three-Eyed Raven bullshit._ “Can you give me any sort of help?”

Bran blinked once, slowly. “Assistance will come from no one.”

 _Like that’s a fucking surprise._ “You call that helpful?”

“Actually, I would.”

Cursing under his breath, Sandor stalked off towards the keep. _Fucking seers and their fucking nonsense…_

****

The keep was already abuzz with the news that the army would march north the next day. Sansa was stopped by so many people to answer questions about what should be sent with them, who should stay behind, what would Winterfell do once the dragon queen’s army was gone, etcetera, that she’d developed a headache by the time she reached the kitchens.

The cook, luckily, knew what was needed. “Lady Arya’s already been here, m’lady,” she said, loading a leather bag with bread, cheese, dried meat, and other foodstuffs that would keep on the road. “I made sure she had everything she needed. The new lord won’t be going hungry any time soon, either.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said gratefully, hefting the stuffed bag. She headed to the stables, half-afraid that Sandor would have left already.

She needn’t have worried. He was already back in his armor, his battered but thick quilted coat and travel cape layered over it to keep him warm. She hung back for a moment, trying to memorize everything she could about him. How his hair was significantly lighter than his beard, and both were lighter than that one remaining fierce eyebrow. How he moved with a muscular grace that belied the heavy armor he wore. How his large hands were elegant as they deftly tightened the saddle’s straps. _He has elegant feet, as well. I hadn’t expected that._

_I think I’m falling in love with him. I hadn’t expected that at all._

He turned, spotting her. “That the food?” he said, nodding at the bag in her hands.

She spurred herself to move, handing it to him. He stuffed it in a saddlebag and tied it shut, then pulled her into his arms. “What are you going to do about Jon?” he murmured into her ear.

“I don’t know.” Her headache wasn’t helped by that shocking news. “He would make a good king.”

“Would he?” Her husband’s eyes narrowed in thought. “He’s a good man, Sansa. That type doesn’t last long, especially when they have crowns crammed on their heads.”

She knew that as well, but if it came down to Jon—Aegon—or Daenerys, she knew who she was going to choose. “Perhaps he’d be the first.”

“Perhaps, if you were the fist behind his reign. Are you ready to take on that duty?”

Hadn’t she already? Jon was the Warden of the North, but she was the Lady of Winterfell. The northern lords looked to her for help, food, information. “If I have to,” she said softly. “It isn’t what I wanted, but…”

“It’s what you’re good at.” He nodded. “You’ve been through the fires, little bird. You know how to play this game as well as anyone, and better than most.” His gaze turned contemplative. “But protect what’s yours first. Let Cersei and her hired sellswords fight with Daenerys and her armies until King’s Landing is a pile of smoking ash. I wouldn’t piss on it to put it out, as long as I knew that Winterfell still stood with you in it.”

She had to smile at that. “Spoken like a true northerner.”

“Well, I’ve got the fur for it, anyhow.”

He bent to her and their lips met once more, a gentle press that spoke of regret and deferred desires, a promise asked and given. When they parted, Sansa cupped his scarred cheek. “You’re not the Lannisters’ Hound any more. You’re a Stark wolf, and you’re mine. Remember that, and come back to me.”

He nodded. “As my lady commands.”

She followed as he led Stranger out of the stable, finding a quiet corner of the courtyard before swinging up into the saddle. The giant warhorse shook its head, snorting and clearly eager to be on the road again. Sandor glanced down at her one last time, dark eyes finally free of the old bitterness they’d carried. Now they were full of determination and something else, something that sent a sweet pain through her.

_Tell him you love him. Even if you’re not sure yet, let him have this, tell him—_

She opened her mouth just as he gave Stranger the signal to walk. Man and horse clopped out of the courtyard, towards the path that would lead to the Kingsroad. Surrounded by the bustle of the keep’s people, Sansa remained calm as she watched him go, ivory to porcelain to steel, the perfect Lady of Winterfell.

Inside, however, she mourned.

****

Sandor kept Stranger at an easy walk, not wanting to risk his warhorse’s footing on the rutted cart path’s snowy surface, and wondered when his companion would show up.

“Took you long enough.”

He glowered at Arya as she rode out from a copse. “For fuck’s sake. Can’t I say goodbye to my wife?”

“You did that last night. At least twice, from what I could hear. And this morning.”

 _Nosy little bitch._ But the memory of Sansa clutching him, teeth sinking into his shoulder as she reached her peak, was something he would treasure. “Surprised I didn’t hear you and your smith,” he sniped back. “Don’t know why you’re not staying with him in Winterfell. They all think you’re a big hero there.”

She shrugged. “Don’t like heroes.”

Well, he couldn’t blame her on that. As far as he was concerned, heroes were killers that just happened to be popular with the right people. “Must have felt good sticking a knife in that horned fucker, though.”

“Felt better than dying.”

The familiar pattern of sarcasm settled around them, comfortable as an old doublet. “Sansa says you’re going to King’s Landing to kill your brother,” Arya continued.

“Mm. We have unfinished business, him and me.”

“Me, too, with Cersei. I don’t think I’m coming back, though.”

That surprised him. “Not even for your smith?”

Her battered face went chilly. “He’s not my smith.”

 _You’re a fool if you think that, girl. You hold his heart in your cruel little hands._ He glanced around at the snow-choked trees and fields. He never thought he’d come back here, but Sansa had changed everything with her proposal. Perhaps the little wolf would change her mind, as well.

But he knew better than to bring it up now. “Gonna leave me to die again if I get hurt?”

A corner of Arya’s mouth curled. “Probably.”

He shook his head, amused. _At least she’s honest._ “Fine. Once we get to King’s Landing, I kill my brother and you kill Cersei. We’re probably both die in the doing of it, but at least we’ll take them with us.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Her grey eyes flickered, cold as the landscape around them. “When we get close, can we stop off at the Crossroads Inn? I’ve got a taste for chicken.”

“Oh, fuck off.” But he smiled at the pale blue winter sky.

****

Sansa stood on the battlements, watching Daenerys and her two dragons spiral up into the sky. They would fly to White Harbor where Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, Grey Worm and the remnants of the Unsullied and Dothraki would take ship to Dragonstone while Jon and the northern army would start down the Kingsroad. She’d listened to Tyrion try to convince her to work with Daenerys, that all the little Valyrian queen wanted was to make the world a better place, that Jon would be safe in King’s Landing.

She knew better. And when the little Hand of the Queen repeated Jon’s fateful words that he wasn’t a Stark, she made her decision. _I swore an oath to my brother Jon, not to my cousin Aegon. What I do now, I do for the good of us all._

“What if there was someone else?” she said out loud. “Someone better?”

Tyrion shook his head. “Such as?”

“The trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, born after their secret marriage.”

Tyrion’s jaw dropped open. “What are you talking about?”

“Samwell Tarley found proof of it in a maester’s diary, and Bran confirmed it. Rhaegar and Lyanna married and had a trueborn son. Lyanna begged my father to protect him, which he did at great personal cost. That son was raised as a Stark. He became commander of the Night’s Watch, fought in the Battle of the Bastards, and is now the only other person in the world who can ride a dragon.” She pursed her lips. “Really, we were all absolutely blind not to notice that. Dragons don’t like anyone other than Targaryens.”

The Hand’s mouth worked silently for a moment. “Jon,” he finally managed.

“Yes.” Bran’s words came to her. “Or to give him his proper name, Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

Tyrion began to pace, scrubbing at his beard. The sound of it was raspy on the cold air. “Does ... does Daenerys know?”

“Yes, since before the battle. She didn’t want him to tell anyone.”

“I’m not surprised,” he muttered. “But he told you.”

“And Arya, and Sandor. He wanted us to know that Father had never betrayed Mother after all.”

The little man stopped abruptly, looking like he wanted to curl up in a ball on the snowy flagstones. “Oh, I need a drink. Jon Snow is a secret Targaryen prince, and the queen knows, and they’ve been—” He shut up, giving her a horrified glance.

“I know,” she said shortly. “Jon told me. They can’t marry because of that.”

“It never stopped a Targaryen before,” Tyrion shot back. “And we’re about to wage war on my mad sister. No, I don’t need a drink—I need a barrel. Two barrels.” He glared at her, suddenly suspicious. “You’re putting me in a very difficult position by telling me this, Sansa. Why?”

 _And finally the cleverest man in Westeros returns._ “I’m telling you—” _Because you’re the only one who can possibly talk Daenerys out of killing Jon once she decides he’s a threat. And she will._ “—because I thought you should know, as her Hand.”

“And you don’t think she’d tell me this herself.”

“She’s known since the Battle of Winterfell. Has she said anything to you?”

“No, but—wait. You said ‘someone better.’" His oversized head twisted away but his gaze remained on her. "Oh. no. No, no, no. Please tell me you’re not trying to get me to put your former bastard brother on the throne.”

 _And why shouldn’t I?_ “I think he’s a better choice, yes, and not only because his claim is stronger. But I admit to being prejudiced.”

“Yes, you are.” It was said sharply. “I have faith in our queen, my lady. She’ll be a good ruler. That’s all she ever wanted to be.”

She wanted to shake the man. _Can’t you see what’s in front of you? She refuses to let our men rest. She had her dragon burn Sam’s father and brother to death because they wouldn’t bend the knee. She wants to pull Cersei out root and stem, and I don’t think she cares who she hurts in the process. These aren’t the actions of a good queen—or a sane one, for that matter._

But Tyrion was still firmly in Daenerys’s camp. She would have to wait until he saw the truth for himself. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said aloud. “I shouldn’t keep you any longer—you have a long trip ahead of you. Safe travels, my lord.”

Still wary, he nodded. “I can’t exactly thank you for telling me this, my lady, but I appreciate the information nonetheless. I hate being blindsided.” He sketched a bow to her, then hurried off.

It had been the right decision, she knew that. _Tyrion’s best positioned to help us all. I couldn’t send him south without telling him._ But a flicker of guilt gnawed at her. What would the dragon queen do to him if she found out he knew Jon’s secret? And what would the old gods do to someone who broke an oath sworn in front of a heart tree?

One hand resting on her belly, she watched as the dragon queen flew off. _I won’t let you hurt anyone I love, Daenerys. That oath, I'll keep.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of HEIRS, but it's not the end of the series. As promised earlier I will be writing the end of the show from my own perspective -- I'm not GRRM, but I'm also not D&D so my characterizations will at least make narrative sense.
> 
> In the meantime I have a book to finish (I'm a romance writer -- if anyone wants to take a look at my fantasy romance that I describe as "Game of Thrones with less gore, more consensual sex, and about the same amount of wine drinking," feel free to ping me at alicedaywrites@gmail.com for links) so I may not start the next story for a couple of weeks—hang tight and try to get through S08E06 without throwing anything at the screen. Peace out, my lovelies!

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before s08e04 because I figured there was no way we'd get a good SanSan scene. I was wrong ... kinda. I mean, yeah, there *was* a SanSan scene, but damn, Clegane, way to remind the woman you've presumably wanted since season 2 of the sheer hell she's gone through. *kicks the big lug* So here's something that's a bit of a mishmash about Unkiss theories, sections from the books, and my own wish that Sandor finally finds a little bit of happiness.
> 
> Oh, who am I kidding? This is Game of Thrones. He probably dies with Arya after they take down the Mountain. Thank the old gods and the new for fanfic.


End file.
